


Love is the Death of Duty

by phsyconic



Series: Love is the Death of Duty [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phsyconic/pseuds/phsyconic
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen has been waiting her whole life for this moment: at last she has returned to the shores of Westeros. When a Red Priestess shows up telling her to summon the King in the North, she doesn't know what to make of it: when Jon Snow arrives on her shores, she doesn't know what to make of him either.





	1. Chapter 1

Love is the Death of Duty

By

Phsyconic

The sky was a cold blue, the ocean a deep green. The wind was blowing in a restless manner, the sparse trees dancing in the swell. The gulls calls over head rang in her ears, and the salt burned her eyes as Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of her name, got closer and closer to the beginning of the end. Hours ago, Dragonstone had been a distant speck on the horizon, and her dream still felt a world away; now it consumed her, the very feeling of tangible success overwhelmed her senses. A flood of unbridled emotion washed over her; pain, relief, and anticipation all bundled together. Unshed tears welled in her eyes, but her face remained a mask; she would not break now, not when all her strength was needed to take the next step forward. Soon the moment would be upon her.

Soon.

And sooner still.

Grey Worm moved from the back of the row boat to help his queen disembark, but, with her back still turned to him, she motioned for him to stop. Daenerys would do this herself. Carefully, deliberately, she lifted one leg out of the boat and placed it in the frigid water below. The ocean rose barely to her ankle, and even though the water could not seep through her hide boots, she could feel how cold it was. One step. Two steps. A third, fourth, fifth and sixth followed, until the would-be Queen of Westeros stood on dry ground, surrounded by the eroded cliffs of her ancestral home. Where she had felt a myriad of emotions before, she acknowledged only one now; determination. She had fought for years for this, and she would not be stopped now. She turned her violet eyes to the pale blue sky, and saw her dragons tearing through the soft white clouds. Their shrieks raised the hairs of the queens landing party, but they had a different effect on their mother; Daenerys of the House Targaryen was home, and she was dead set on seeing her dream become a reality.

...

The Throne room was cold and reeked with the smell of the sea. The dark, uneven stone floor was encrusted with a thin layer of brine, and where some of the rock had been worn away unevenly, puddles of stagnant water lay undisturbed. Daenerys stood at the mouth of the room while her companions set about making the room more suitable. An unsullied walked past her with a torch, lighting each of the braziers on the wall, setting the rough hewn walls alight with a dancing orange glow. Missandei walked past her in as if in a trance, staring up at the high ceilings with a disturbed look on her face.

"This place has never been welcoming."

Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, strode in the room, taking it in as he walked.

"I don't need it to be welcoming," Daenerys spoke in a soft voice, as if not wanting to disturb her surroundings, "Our time here is temporary."

Tyrion turned and smiled at her, stretching the scar that spanned his face, his profile catching the dull orange light emitting from the torches.

"Does it feel like home?"

She knew that he knew the answer.

"No."

She carefully walked towards the throne. The pale blue light emitting from the window behind the throne cast an ethereal glow on the ancestral seat of her house. As she ascended the steps, the occupants of the room watched her with subdued breath; And as she sat upon the pale stone, all those who were there knew that she had been born for this moment, and other moments like it. All those who were there knew that she belonged on the Iron Throne.

Daenerys looked out over the Dothraki at the entrance of the room, the unsullied that stood on the steps, her hand who was slowly approaching her, and her closest advisor who was accompanying him. She looked out and saw memories and hardships that she had endured to make it this far. She saw the faces of those she had lost in the shadows of the room, and the faces of those that were still with her, staring up at her with a sort of reverence.

"Shall we begin?"

...

A great storm raged outside of the war room on Dragonstone, the wind and rain coming down unabated. Daenerys stood near the open windows, listening to the violent crash of the waves below her. Lightning split the horizon, and the deafening sound of thunder followed seconds after, drowning out the sounds of the waves, the rain, and the crackling fire that did little to ward off the chill that had taken hold of her.

"My Queen."

Varys's voice broke her trance, freeing her from the hypnotic movement of the dark turmoil below her. As she turned to face her Master of Whispers, the Eunuch thought that he had never beheld someone as imposing as she looked in that moment.

"What is it?", She asked, the edge in her voice a result of the conversation that they had shared moments before. "I hope your not here to tell me that you deem me an unfit ruler already?". There was humor in her voice, and a smile on her face, but her eyes were full of fire. The Bald man returned her insincere smile, and shook his head.

"You have a visitor," he said.

...

The Words of the Red Priestess still rang in Daenerys ear's as she sat in room that her hand had taken as his private residence. There was a fire dying in the hearth, and she had pulled herself into a tight ball in an effort to keep warm. Sitting next to her was Missandei, whilst Tyrion was perched upon his bed, a cup of wine in one hand, and the rest of the bottle in the other. Suddenly her hand broke out into laughter, chortling to the point where some of his wine sloshed out of his cup and onto his bed sheets, staining the white linens red.

"Oops," he said in a tone of voice that showed that he cared very little that he had spilled his wine.

"What's so funny?", Daenerys inquired, cocking her eyebrow at her inebriated companion. Tyrion turned towards her, a wide smile plastered on his features before he sighed and swallowed the rest of the wine in his cup.

"What Melisandre said," he paused for a moment, covering his mouth with his fist. "About Jon Snow. It truly is remarkable what time does for people. Last I saw him, he was four and ten, and still very much concerned with how the world thought of him. Now he's king!". He poured himself another cup and raised his glass to his lips, "perhaps I'll be king next."

Glancing over at his Queen, he saw a slight frown etched on her pale features. "I'm only joking of course," he continued, turning his attention back to his wine. Daenerys looked at him with amusement. "Your threat to my claim isn't what bothers me," she stated, and saw her Hand pull a sour expression, "Its Jon Snows. He has no right to his rule, yet he was chosen to be king by his people. He brought the wildlings south of the wall, and while I must admit that my knowledge of the north is limited, I understand that nobody likes wildlings." She paused, glancing at her companions. "What kind of man consorts with his people's enemy, and still garners their favor?"

She wouldn't admit it of course, but she had felt a burning curiosity to know more about her northern adversary since Melisandre had recommended that she bring him to Dragonstone. Everything about his rule, save that his father was the previous warden of the North, went against her understanding of Westerosi Culture.

Tyrion started at his cup, swirling the contents inside. "Jon is a man of honor. His father was a man of honor. The people of the north must see part of Ned Stark in his son, and it must be enough to make them overlook tradition. The people of the north are hard, hearty folk; they take their culture very seriously. For them to overlook his status as a bastard, and his acceptance of the wildlings," he paused, and his eyes met his Queens, "then he must have become quite the man."

Daenerys dropped her gaze from Tyrion's, and looked to the flames.

"Yes," she murmured, "Quite the man indeed."


	2. Chapter 2

Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 2

Closer.

Closer.

And Closer still.

Dragonstone grew larger and larger on the horizon as Jon Snow rowed towards it. The jagged cliffs shot out of the island, making it as visually foreboding as his reason for coming was psychologically.

Jon knew he was taking a risk; men of the north never fared well when they traveled south. He was gambling his fate on a bid that Sam was right about the supposed mountain of Dragonglass on this accursed island, knowing that if he was successful it could make all the difference in the war against the White Walkers. He also knew that if he was wrong, it could be the end of everyone that he loved. Jon was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly pitched over the side of the boat when the bow made contact with the beach, arms pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet. He turned around to look at his companion, Davos Seaworth, who was miserably failing at keeping a smile from creeping onto his face. Frowning at the older man, Jon straightened his tunic and, placing his left arm on the side of their small boat, swung himself over and into the ankle deep water.

"Jon Snow."

Jon's eyes settled on the speaker, and a half hearted smile crept across his face.

"Tyrion Lannister."

The Dwarf approached him, beaming, and extended his hand. Jon took it, wondering at the strangeness of the moment, and the comfort he felt at seeing a familiar face. "It's good to see you, Snow," the Dwarf stated, drawing back his hand, "though I must admit, the circumstances of our reunion are rather….peculiar, wouldn't you agree?" Jon nodded, looking down at the man he hadn't seen in eight years. "Certainly," he concurred, "I'm very interested to hear how the Dwarf of Casterly rock came into the service of the last Targaryen." Tyrion raised an eyebrow at that, but kept the smile on his face. "Oh it's been quite interesting, even if I have been drunk for most of it," the Dwarf laughed at his own statement, "though I'm not sure if it could possibly be more interesting than how you managed to get out of your Nights Watch vows and becoming the King in the North." The smile slipped off of Jon's face, as his mouth pressed into a hard line and his brows furrowed. "A story for another time, perhaps," his demeanor much more serious than it had been moments prior. "Shall we?", he said, motioning for Tyrion to lead him up the path towards where the castle stood, towering over him. Tyrion was a very intelligent individual, and while Jon's shift in attitude wasn't disguised in the least, he simply chose to ignore it, and drop the subject. "Of course," Tyrion said jovially, and started off with a spring in his step towards the foreboding fortress, Jon at his heels.

...

Halfway up the walkway, Tyrion began to feel uneasy. Jon Snow had changed; and Tyrion wasn't entirely sure if this new person walking behind him would be malleable enough for the queen to bend. Tyrion also realized that it was rather ridiculous to have expected to find a completely unchanged Jon Snow, but he wouldn't have ever anticipated this level of shift. Jon was clearly a hard man, and straight to the point; but Tyrion had always been rather good at seeing beyond people's exteriors, and he saw a darkness in Jon. Perhaps these negotiations weren't such a good idea after all. His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill, deafening sound of a dragon's roar, which was followed soon after by Rhaegal swooping out of the sky and passing over them, not twenty feet above where they were walking. Tyrion turned to see Jon and Davos ducking for cover, both of them breathing heavily. The Dothraki that had accompanied Tyrion down onto the beach were regarding them with something bordering on contempt, which he found very ironic as nobody that he had met had ever reacted in any other manner upon beholding the Dragons for the first time.

"I'd say you get used to them," Tyrion said, following Rhaegal's path through the clouds towards his siblings who had just come into view, "but you never really do." He turned back to Jon, who was helping Davos to his feet, an expression of awe plastered on his face. "Come, Jon Snow," Tyrion began to walk again, "Their mother awaits you."

...

Walking through the corridors and hallways of Dragonstone, Jon Snow did his best to ignore the growing sense of discomfort that was gnawing at his stomach. The passage ways were cool and dark, and the silence was palpable; Tyrion had made no attempts at conversation since the Dragon had passed over them on the walkway, the only sound was the Dwarf's heavy breathing and the splashes from stepping in the puddles that riddled the stone floor. When they finally arrived at the two metal doors that presumably led to the throne room, Jon's discomfort had essentially consumed him. Tyrion glanced back at him, and opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, seemingly thinking better of it, he motioned for the two Dothraki standing on either side of the doors to open them. Each man took hold of one of the Dragon adorned handles, and pushed, the metal grinding the black rock below them.

The room was dimly lit by torches that adorned the left wall, splashing a faint orange light across the rest of the space. There were windows on the right side of the ceiling that let very little light permeate them; the glass was covered in salt and darked from decades of neglect. In the center of the room, the sigil of House Targaryen was engraved in the floor, though time had worn down some of its details. On the far side of the room, Daenerys Targaryen sat rigidly on the throne of her forebears, her violet eyes distinguishable from across the expanse between the two monarchs. Grudgingly, Jon admitted to himself that none of the stories of her beauty had been exaggerated. A pretty, curly haired woman standing to the right of the last Targaryen spoke, breaking the silence.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."

Jon looked back at Davos awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. Thankfully, his companion was a little quicker to respond than he was.

"This is Jon Snow, your grace," he replied, glancing at the man he followed. "He's king in the North," he added, a trace of amusement accompanying his flea bottom accent.

"Jon Snow."

Daenerys voice, clear, concise, and totally foreign, reached out to him. He turned to face his southern counterpart.

"Daenerys Targaryen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooook! So I've just come back to school, and as a result of having no work yet to keep me occupied, I've written another chapter. Please review and let me know how I'm doing... some of the line breaks that I had in chapter one were removed, so hopefully these ones stay! I'm working on the next chapter already, but production is going to slow down dramatically starting tomorrow.
> 
> If you're wondering about why I've not written about some portions of the plot, its that I don't necessarily feel like rewriting everything that we saw in the show. I'm definitely more focused on telling my own story, but I will incorporate certain scenes that we saw from this past season, such as the meeting between Jon and Dany. It will not, however, be a word for word, action for action copy and paste.


	3. Chapter 3

Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 3

Jon Snow was smaller than she had imagined. Daenerys was looking down at a rather comely man that couldn't have been more than two inches taller than her, who stood in the place of the towering, hairy beast that she had expected. While she presently surprised about his physical appearance, she could see the defiance etched into the lines of his face from across the room, something that she knew would not bode well in the moments that were to follow.

"Welcome, my lords," she said, smiling down at them, making no move to greet them up close. Jon Snow returned her smile with a sort of grimace, his disposition clearly unchanged. "I hope the seas weren't too rough?", she continued, hoping to elicit a vocal response from the man across the room. "The winds were kind, your grace," Jon Snow stated with an air of finality. Awkward silence filled the room, hanging in the air like dust. Daenerys stared at Jon, and he met her gaze, and held it unwaveringly.

"I assume, my lord," she began, decidedly tired of waiting for him to speak, "that you're here to bend the knee?" The king in the north shifted his balance from one leg to the other, dropping his head briefly, his steely conviction renewed. "I am not," he stated, the authority in his voice clear. Infuriated, the Dragon Queen turned to her hand, who in kind, turned to Jon Snow. "Bend the knee, lord snow," Tyrion began, "You'll be much better off for it. When we have dealt with Cersei and the Euron Greyjoy, the last thing I want is to march north and take up arms against you." Jon was unmoved, and shook his head. "The people of the North, placed their trust in me. I cannot violate that trust for the sake of some southern queen." Daenerys's nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed with mounting dislike. "None of this matters anyways," Jon continued, the edge in his voice growing more prominent with every word, "it won't matter who sits on the iron throne when the dead march south." Eyes widening in mockery, Daenerys looked at her hand. "The dead," she stated, her voice laced with disbelief. Perhaps Melisandre was trying to make her look a fool by suggesting that she treat with a madman. Tyrion also looked befuddled, but managed to hide any cynicism from his features. "The dead, marching south," her hand stated, his voice trailing off, his eyes meeting Jon's in a silent request for elaboration.

"Aye, I know it sounds mad." The man that accompanied Snow stepped forward and continued, "it sounds completely insane. But he tells the truth." Daenerys looked at him with the same cold stare that she had held Jon with. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know you Sir," She began before he cut in, answering the question that was forming on her lips. "Davos Seaworth, your grace. And don't bother yourself with my house, its relatively new. What he's saying, your grace, it's all true. I wish it was as nonsensical as it sounds, but we can't ignore this; I've seen 'em, and he's been fighting 'em for years. The hard truth is the one he's been saying this whole time; if we don't put aside our differences and come together then we're finished. We're all finished."

Silence swept across throne room when Ser Davos stopped talking, the gravity of what he was implying matched only by the sheer impossibility of what he was saying. It was Jon who spoke next.

"Tyrion, do you take me for a liar?" Her hand, lost in his own head, looked up at his northern friend, his expression softening. "No," he began to say before Jon interjected. "Do you take me for a fool? A Madman?", he demanded. Tyrion, slightly taken aback by the harshness of Jon's tone, shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. "No, and no," he replied, his voice somewhat subdued. Jon looked up at Daenerys, his grey eyes burning with purpose. "Your grace, I have seen what the white walkers are capable of. You can deny their existence now, but it will be the end of us all. I came here, against the advice of my countrymen, against the advice of my closest advisors, because I knew that you, and your resources might be what we all need to survive. If you would not heed my warning, then I see no reason to linger on this island. I need to return to my people."

Daenerys could not believe what she was hearing. This man had traveled miles to come a treat with her, and based off of first impressions alone, he was willing to depart without a second thought. He did not strike her as a man to waste time. "Why was it that you came here, Lord Snow?", she asked, making no attempt to conceal her distaste for this northern upstart. "Clearly it wasn't to attempt to create an alliance, and clearly it wasn't to bend the knee."

"I did come here hoping that you would listen to what I had to say," Snow's voice hid nothing about how he felt for her either, the malice beginning to curl around his words, "an alliance between our houses, between the north and the south, is necessary for our survival, but I have tried to convince many others before you. Very few of them believed me, and as a result, we will all suffer when winter comes. And winter is very, very close." Daenerys stood from her seat and strode towards him, footsteps echoing off the stone stairs. "You question me for not believing you, Lord Snow," she said, "yet you abstain from answering mine. So I shall ask again, why are you here?".

She was less than a foot away from him now. She could see scars that she hadn't been able to from afar; one that curled its way down his right eyebrow, and the one that ran from above his left eyebrow, down onto his cheek. She could feel his presence even more now; he radiated conviction, drive, purpose, desperation. Violet eyes met grey.

"Dragonglass. I came here for Dragonglass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been working on this story for a little under two months at this point: you can find the whole thing on fanfiction.com. I will continue to post the chapters on here, and I'm currently working on the finale. Hope y'all enjoy, and please keep in mind that this is my first experience writing fanfiction.


	4. Chapter 4

Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 4

The wolf's head flew across the room, clattered against the far wall, and sprung back with what seemed like twice the force before it came to a bouncing halt on the floor. Daenerys and Tyrion had been standing in the war room with only Missandei for company, when she had she made it her personal mission to eviscerate every single wood piece in the likeness of a wolf. Now, Tyrion was taking cover behind the edge of the table, whilst Missandei stood near the entrance of the room, as her queen took her frustration out on the innocent figurines.

"Dragonglass? What in seven hells even is Dragonglass?", she rounded on Tyrion, her eyes burning with Violet flame. "You told me you liked this man," she seethed, her stare burning holes into Tyrion's' small figure, "but in the time he has been here, he has refused to bend the knee, denied me the largest of my seven kingdoms, and belittled my conquest by placing a supposed invasion of the dead at a higher importance." Her voice was so filled with disgust and contempt that it was nearly enough to dissuade Tyrion from trying to make her see reason. Nearly.

"Your grace, I must admit that opening negotiations could have gone better," Tyrion began to say, to which Daenerys snorted in indignation and walked to the fire, staring into its flames. Tyrion continued, "but now more than ever, Jon Snow is of increasing importance to us. We have lost our eyes from Dorne, and its quite probable that both of the greyjoys are dead; as you said, the North is the largest of the seven kingdoms, and, at this point, the last best chance you've got for powerful allies to support your claim. Jon Snow commands the respect and loyalty of his people, so whether you like it or not, we must try again to bridge the gap between you and come to an agreement."

Tyrion looked to Daenerys, to find that a soft, weary expression encapsulating his queens face. Standing in the red orange light the fire let off, she looked twice her age, her young mind and body drained by the magnitude of what she was trying to accomplish. That moment of weakness lasted only for a fleeting moment, before she turned her eyes back to her companions.

"How? How do I get this man on my side?", she asked, her attention focused on Tyrion. He offered her a small, hesitant smile. "Give him the Dragonglass, your grace. Give him something, ask nothing in return, and he will respond in kind. You lose nothing by letting him mine it, you didn't even know it was here," he said, extending his hand towards Daenerys. "Jon is a good man; I believe that in my heart. No doubt he has changed, and certainly he is stubborn, but I cannot imagine that he is unreasonable. Extend him your hand, and in time, he will take it," Tyrion looked up at his Queen, his arm outstretched. Daenerys placed her hand in his, and met his eyes. "What does he even want with the glass anyways?", she asked, the question seemingly aimed at thin air. Tyrion shrugged. "I'll find out for you, if Varys hasn't already," he said, drawing back his arm, "but there is one thing that cannot happen." Daenerys's eyes met his. "Jon Snow cannot be allowed to leave."

…

Jon sat on railing of the walkway, staring out at the vast expanse of blue that lay between him and his home. The waves lapped the stony outcropping on which the walkway was built, salty spray lightly kissing his face. The wind blew through his hair with vigor, and Jon had to squint his eyes to see clearly, such was the brightness of the sunlight reflecting off the waves. He had been sitting there since the Queen had dismissed him, a sense of uselessness completely encapsulating him when he had found no sign of his ship in the harbor.

Daenerys was as intriguing to him as she was infuriating. From what he understood of her past, it seemed somewhat impossible for a person to have overcome the hardships that she had, to be in the position that she was today. Part of him wished that he could give her what she wanted; part of him wished that he didn't have the whole weight of the north resting upon his shoulders. She seemed a capable leader, and a strong, committed woman, if not a bit arrogant.

That train of thought was silenced with aplomb by the part of him that saw a woman incapable of looking past her own selfish agenda. It was silenced by the man that he had been reborn as, who knew his duty went beyond the whims and wishes of this Targaryen Queen. He saw yet another person who refused to even give thought as to the existence of the Others. He saw another obstacle in his path, blocking him from returning to Winterfell, a place he was truly needed.

He was so consumed with his own thoughts, and the natural splendor that lay before him, that he failed to notice Tyrion approaching. The dwarf stopped a few feet from Jon, unnoticed, and stood, waiting to be acknowledged. The scars that marred Jons face, the rough beard that lined his chin and his upper lip, his aura of power and determination; Tyrion knew that he was in the presence of a man with a purpose, a man who had reason to risk his life to come here: a man that could be reasoned with.

"Jon."

Tyrion's voice shook Jon from his stupor. The Northman looked down at Tyrion, his expression one of disinterest.

"Tyrion. Where is my ship?", He replied, "Every minute I waste here, the dead get closer. I need to go home." Jon looked away from the dwarf, casting his eyes back to where the sky met the sea. Tyrion took a step closer.

"Are you ready to give up that easily?", Tyrion asked Jon, "You say you came here seeking Dragonglass. How is obsidian worth meritting a trip this far, if you're not even going to fight for it?".

Jon kept his eyes fixed on the sky.

"Dragonglass kills white walkers," he said eventually, "I was hoping to bring as much as I could carry back to winterfell. A friend of mine, a maester at the Citadel, sent me a raven informing me that this island sits on a mountain of it; obtaining it wouldn't secure our survival, but it would give us a chance."

"I came here knowing that I could find nothing, or die in the process.", his face was grim when he looked at Tyrion. "I don't need to tell you how we Northerners fair when we come south. But this Daenerys seems as though she cannot be negotiated with, and I'm wasting time by remaining here any longer. The North will make due with the provisions we have." His head dropped to look at his feet when he finished speaking, and when he raised it again, he seemed resigned to the fact that his voyage had been a failure.

"Actually," Tyrion said, a smile beginning to form on his face, "the Queen has had a change of heart about the Dragonglass."

Jon's turned his head so quickly, Tyrion was sure that he had strained his neck.

"Go on," Jon said, the slight tremor in his voice not going unnoticed by The Queens Hand.

"Daenerys will allow you to mine as much of the Glass as you want, and will provide you with all the resources, materials and manpower that you may need to do so. She asks for nothing in return, but I would personally advise that you rethink your stance towards her. She hasn't gotten this far by only making enemies, Jon Snow."

Jon's mouth hung open in a rather undignified manner before he seemingly remembered that he had control over his jaw. His mouth pressed into a tight line that became then became an awkward smile. Perhaps he had been quick to judge this southern Queen, he thought.

"Tell your grace that she has my thanks," he said to Tyrion, who was sure that The King in the North's gratitude was sincere.

"Another thing, Jon," Tyrion said as he turned to go, "if what you say is true about the Others marching south, Daenerys could be a valuable ally. Reconsider bending the knee, my friend. It could save us all."

…

Daenerys's eyes opened on a field of white. She was immediately chilled to her core as the snows and the harsh winds buffeted against her. Lost and confused, she began to stumble forwards, raising a hard to shield her eyes from the stinging gale. She had heard a dragon cry from somewhere in front of her; a piercing, heart wrenching note that tore her asunder. She followed the sound, and emerged from the gale to see a massive wall of blue ice in front of her, reaching as high as the eye could perceive. She could make out slight patches of the night sky as she stared up at the dense grey clouds that seemed to consume the ice in front of her. She had never seen so many stars in her life; they were so dense and packed together, that it made Daenerys catch her breath. Never in her life had she seen such natural splendor.

Another cry shook her from her stargazing, the sound increasing in desperation from the last. Before her lay Viserion, his golden scales studded with frost. Blood seeped from underneath his body, coming towards her in torrents. The smell overpowered her senses, making her gag, tears springing to her eyes. How had she not seen him before? She rushed towards her child, the tears now flowing down her face as she called for him desperately. She began to wade through the pool of ankle deep blood, covering her mouth to attempt from retching. Her sobs wracked her body as she kneeled in front of her child; her sweetest, most docile child. So unlike her brother for which he was named. His eyes were closed, his monstrous teeth slightly bared. She searched for a wound, and when she found none, flung her body over his neck, holding him tightly as she continued to weep.

The cold seemed to intensify, and the wind picked up speed. The storm had reached them, again, and it had returned with vengeance. Daenerys was flung off of Viserions neck as his body began twitch and shudder. Stunned, Daenerys watched with horror as Viserion raised his head, blood still seeping from under his scales. He let out another cry; but this one was different. In the place of sadness and desperation, there was something much darker, and more feral. His eyes snapped open and he gazed at her, no sign of recognition in his icy blue eyes.

Daenerys woke in a cold sweat to the crash of thunder and the pounding of the waves along the shore. It was still dark outside; she could hear the wind howling outside her windows as her mind replayed her dream, Viserion's blue eyes filling her with dread.


	5. Chapter 5

Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 5

Breathing heavily, Jon Snow had to use every ounce of muscle he had left not to collapse into the sand below him. His ragged features were illuminated by the dancing light of a few dying torches, their orange flames split into thousands of brilliant shards by the glass that seemed to encase the cave walls.

Samwell had been right; when one of the stark men had found a small gap in the rock face of the cliffs, they had discovered miles of cave systems brimming with dragonglass. There was enough crystal to fill a small fleet, nevermind the sole ship that he had arrived on, and Jon had already begun to think about who to delegate the task of making numerous trips to Dragonstone to. He had been working without any respite, save for small breaks to eat or sleep, mining like a man possessed. Jon knew that he had to make up for lost time, and pushed his companions and his body to their physical limits. Now, Jon certainly felt as though he had reached that limit.

The whole of dragonstone was a very damp place: water hung in the air surrounding the island like a veil. As far as Jon was concerned, the caves were a thousand times worse. Mere minutes in the tunnels led to being drenched in sweat and brine, the hot air making his skin feel sticky with salt. Jon sat on the sand and thought of the frigid, dry air of Winterfell. He thought of the bite of the northern winds on his face, the feel of fresh snow on his exposed skin. He longed to walk through the godswood, to be at peace in the cold and the silence: Jon knew he would be waiting a long time.

Jon closed his eyes, his mind comfortably numb, his body aching and sore. He lay there against the cave wall, the obsidian poking into his back, the hot, wet air filling his lungs, making him heave and cough. Sighing in defeat, he stood groggily, his sleep deprived body making hard work of the walk towards the mouth cave.

After what felt like an eternity he emerged, the dense, heavy air of the caverns replaced by a light breeze. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, the smell of the sea washing over him. The midnight blue sky was beginning to brighten in the west, the cooler turquoise hues signaling that it was very early in the morning. Jon saw Davos and the rest of his men sprawled out on the sand, sleeping on makeshift beds and blankets, no doubt exhausted from their efforts. With a start, Jon realized this was the first time he had been outside since they had found the Dragonglass; he had been so consumed with the excitement of their discovery that he had worked himself into the ground, not leaving the cave for what must have been days on end.

Finally feeling as though he could breathe once more, Jon sunk into the sand, and rested at last, the wind tousling his hair and his eyelids closed.

….

Daenerys hadn't seen hide nor hair of her Northern guest for four days. Varys had reported that he and his entire delegation had disappeared into an opening in a rocky outcropping a mile south of the castle. At night, when she looked out over the jagged expanse of the island, she could faintly make out the dim light that their campfires gave off; that was her only reassurance that they were still on the island. While Daenerys did not seek Jon Snow out, her thoughts had been consumed by the King in the North, and the message that he bore. Since her dream of Viserion, her concrete disbelief in the army of the dead had begun to fracture and crumble; Daenerys was not easily unsettled, but the icy blue stare of her undead child had moved something inside of her, and shaken her to her core.

As the sun rose, painting the sky a pale yellow, Daenerys decided it was time to reconvene with Jon Snow. She dressed herself in an ashy black coat with crimson flames embroidered on her bosom, a length of silver chain clasped to her shoulder by a three headed Dragon pin.

The sun was high in the sky, and the air was still when Dany began her trek towards the cave. She walked alone, her eyes searching for signs of life on the beach as she grew ever closer. Daenerys had no idea what she why she was going to see Jon: was she going to check on his progress in the mine? Or was her purpose to tell him about her dream: about Viserion? Was she going to let a stranger into her mind's eye? Was she going to let a stranger know what had made her recent nights sleepless? Was she going to see him because she was attracted to him?

Dany shook her head at the ridiculousness of her last train of thought. Jon Snow was an attractive man: she would have had to have been blind to deny it, but she knew that she had little time to pursue her base instincts. Still, her choice of outfit accentuated her curves, drawing the eye of the observer to her physical assets, and deny it as she might, part of her knew that she had worn it incase Jon's eyes were drawn as well.

There was something about the upstart King that fascinated Dany; his passion, his selflessness. It went beyond physical appearance; Daenerys knew that despite their rather unpleasant first exchange, there was much more to the handsome northerner than was on display.

Voices hailed her as she drew within a hundred yards of the camp; a haphazard semi circle of makeshift beds arranged around a large fire pit, the embers still smoldering from the previous blaze. Davos Seaworth strode towards her, his face covered with dust and a sheen of sweat. The older man had shed the cloak he had worn during their audience and was now dressed in only a tunic, the sleeve on his left arm torn, the skin underneath slightly bloodied. To say that he looked worse for wear was a dramatic understatement.

"Your grace," he rasped, his voice scratchy from long hours of use. "I'm afraid none of us are very presentable at the moment," he said smiling down at her, humor lining his words. She returned his grin in kind, and spoke in a lighthearted tone. "I was just coming to check how on how you were faring," she said, "I'm afraid that I've been a rather negligent host."

Davos chuckled at her words, shaking his head. "I'm afraid we've been rather unappreciative guests, your grace. Jon's been working us very hard down here, and our ship is almost full." He gestured out at the boat that had been returned to them when the mining had begun, its sailings still in the breeze, the snarling Direwolf motionless. Danys smile faltered for a moment; she had to speak to Jon before he left. She had to tell him about her dream.

"And where is Lord Snow," she inquired, emphasizing her intentional misuse of royal nomenclature. If Davos noticed, he showed no sign of it, instead turning towards the cave.

"Come," he beckoned, "I'll take you to him."

As Daenerys stepped into the cave, her breath hitched at the sight in front of her. Supposedly the northerners had been working in this area for days on end, yet she saw barely a trace of any mining. Dragon glass glittered down at her from all side, its jagged edges protruding outwards like so many black teeth. Standing near the entrance to the cave, bathed in the cool light from outside, Daenerys saw herself reflected a million times in the crystals around her. Such was her enthrallment that Davos had to touch her on the shoulder to bring her out of her stupor.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, an expression awe plastered on her face, "I had no idea any of this was here." Davos looked up at the ceiling and saw himself standing next to Daenerys in countless jagged, black mirrors. "It's as beautiful as it is important," he said, turning to face the young woman who stood beside him, "this discovery will make a huge difference in our chances for survival." As Dany looked at him, Davos noticed the lack of reproach that had been present when Jon first presented the topic of the risen dead. "Yes," she said softly, "I'm beginning to believe it will."

….

Winding their way through the seemingly endless maze of caverns, Dany and Davos passed dozens of stark bannermen, plugging away at their menial tasks, grunting with effort as they sheared shards of obsidian off of the walls and ceilings. Daenerys knew that they were approaching the king in the north when she could hear the clicking of pickaxe on stone, without the accompaniment of the human sounds. She was fitting, she supposed, that he be so intent on his task that he made no noise, save for that of his tool dislodging crystals from the wall in front of him. When he finally came into view around a bend in the tunnels, she thought that she had never seen a monarch appear so unregal. Unlike Davos, Jon had removed his tunic and only wore a loose fitting shirt over his upper body, his lower body still covered by his leather trousers. He worked with efficient ferocity, multiple pieces of dragonglass falling to the floor with each pass of his pickaxe. Where his hair had previously been pulled back in a tight knot behind his head, his dark locks fell freely around his face now, swinging in front of his eyes with each movement of his arms. His face, like Davos's, was covered in dirt, and Dany could see the bags under his eyes from a few feet away. In that instant, she wondered if he had slept at all since they had found these caves.

Jons eyes were drawn to the warm light emanating from the torch that his advisor was carrying, and seemed to do a double take when he beheld who was standing before n of him. With a small laugh that carried no humor, he let his pickaxe fall next to the floor, the impact raising a small cloud of black sediment.

"I'll leave you two to it then," Davos said, and left back the way that they he and Dany had come. The light in the room was reduced to a dim glow, the only source being a sputtering torch between the two monarchs. Daenerys's stomach did a flip at the idea that she a was alone with Jon Snow, who, despite looking quite ragged, was still incredibly attractive.

"What do you think," Jon asked her, interrupting her fanciful thoughts, making a sweeping motion in a wide arc around the cavern. Once again, Dany took a moment to admire the splendor of her surroundings, and steal a glance at Jon's uncovered arms.

"I had no idea any of this was here…it's truly incredible," she said, repeating what she had told Davos. Jon smiled up at the crystals, his eyes full of hope.

"I was hoping that you would come and see it, before we hacked it all to pieces," he smiled at her, and her stomach flipped again, "this is more than we'll ever need."

"I'm glad that I could help you, Jon. And... well I'm sorry about our introduction," she hesitated for a moment, before continuing, "There's something I need to tell you." Jon nodded, and walked towards her, pulling the torch off of the wall next to him. "And there's something I need to show you," he said, offering her his hand. Nervously, she placed her hand in his, hoping that she looked much calmer on the outside than she felt within. His palms and fingers were rough with calluses, but his grip was gentle and welcoming. He led her further into the darkness of the tunnels, and before she could question what she was doing, Jon stopped in front of her .

They stood in the center of a large cavern, and where the walls were devoid of obsidian, they were covered in something far more peculiar. Dany gazed at the cave paintings, the orange glow of the torch illuminating the primitive depictions.

"What are these?" she asked without facing Jon. He too was staring up at the drawings, his attention focused on a set of detailed figures that Dany could not quite make out. Jon heard the Dragon Queen walk closer to him, and turned when she stopped suddenly. Carefully, deliberately, Daenerys pointed at the likeness of the two white walkers, their eyes a chilling frost blue.

"White Walkers," Jon said, his voice grim. Dany turned his violet gaze to meet his, their faces inches apart, her expression one of unguarded terror.

"I know," came her breathless reply, "I dreamed of them."


	6. Chapter 6

Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 6

Eastwatch was a haphazard old castle that stood on the junction where the wall met the icy sea. Dawyn Mollen, son of Derwyn Mollen, had joined the Night's Watch at the age of five and ten, his head filled with high expectations and dreams of valor and honor: the unbridled joy he felt when he said his vows undoubtedly made it the happiest day of his life. Overtime, the excitement that he felt dwindled, and when Jeor Mormont had him sent to serve as a steward at East Watch, he had begun to loath his miserable existence. During his time at Castle Black, he had silently cursed the builders for the poor job they had done at keeping the cold at bay; now, at the age of thirty and two, he would have given anything to go back. The "Castle" here was no more than a few creaking old wood buildings and a series of unstable stairways that carried you to the top of the wall. On this frigid night, dense grey clouds hung in the air, obscuring the stars. Dawyn was sat atop the wall, neglecting his patrol duty, staring out over the edge, his vision blocked by the dense snow fall. Nothing ever happened here, and the air around him felt so cold that he didn't know if he could move, even if he tried. The wind began to pick up, the snows swirling around him biting at his unprotected face. Grumbling to himself, Dawyn pulled his legs into his chest, his frozen joints complaining as he did so.

The first blast of the horn sheared through the sounds of the gale and the snow buffeting against his shivering form: Rangers returning. Dawyn's eyes had just slipped shut when he heard second blast. Wildlings. Heart racing, Dawyn pushing himself to his feet and began to stumble towards the staircase leading down to the castle below. The wind was now a roaring cyclone, the snow blinding him as it fell thick and fast. Dawyn tried to remember the last time that there had been wildlings at east watch, but his thoughts were cut short, and his heart froze as a third, wailing note pierced the frigid night sky.

….

Walking down the path from the castle, Davos stared suspiciously at the scroll in his hand. The direwolf impressed onto the grey wax seemed to snarl up at him, its grin full of malice and ill intent. There had been little contact with the North since they had arrived on Dragonstone, the only letter they had received arriving on the second day of their tenure. Dark wings, dark words, he thought glumly, hoping that his intuition was wrong. He found Jon where he knew he'd be: the King in the North, aided by three other stark men, was carrying a heavy wooden chest brimming with Dragonglass to the row boat that was pushed up on the beach. The young man's face was red from exertion as he and the others let the crate drop into the boat with a heavy ka-thunk. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jon turned to face his advisor, his features immediately apprehensive when the older man offered him the scroll.

"From Sansa?", he asked, glancing at Davos.

The former smuggler shrugged, "I don't know your grace. This letter wasn't meant for my eyes." Worry evident in his face, Jon broke the seal and unfurled the yellow paper, eyes scanning the words in front of him. A joyful smile began to work its way across his face as he read, and Davos felt a rush of relief at the implication that the news was good. That feeling was short lived, however, as Jon's smile fell. He tore his eyes away from the message, and handed it to Davos, his eyes turned downwards. Gingerly, Davos took the delicate scroll from Jon's hand a held it up.

Jon,

I hope this message finds you in good health.

Bran came home. He was brought to the gates of Winterfell last night by men from Castle Black. To see him again after so many years...I went to talk with him in the morning, and he barely seemed to recognize me at first. It's been so long since we've all been together, I know he'll be glad to see you.

The men who brought Bran home were asking for you. The Lord Commander was with them, a man by the name of Eddison Tollett. Their news was grave Jon; East Watch was attacked. The Castle was destroyed, and Tollet said that they found no signs of any survivors. The most disturbing thing, however, was the discovery of a tunnel leading straight through the wall. The Others did this Jon. I'm sure of it, and The Lord Commander was sure of it. We need you with us now.

Sansa

"We need to leave today," Jon said, his voice rough. Davos nodded slowly, rolling up the paper.

"You should write back to her," he said, looking at Jon, "any message you send today would still arrive at winterfell before we do."

"I agree," Jon said, his grey eyes meeting Davos's, "If the Walkers got past the wall, I need to know how. I need someone who knows the true north."

...

Hours later, as the sun began to set, Jon and his men set the last chest of Dragon glass down in the rowboat. He could see Daenerys and Tyrion approaching, accompanied by the Queen's Herald and two of the soldiers that Jon had come to know as the Unsullied. His relationship with the Dragon Queen had completely changed since their conversation in the cave; he knew that she trusted him far more now about the existence of the Others.

"How do you know it wasn't just a dream," Jon had asked, captivated in that moment by the beauty of the woman who stood in front of him. Daenerys's soft gaze met his own. "Because my dreams come true," she had whispered back.

He found himself wishing that he could spend more time with the Daenerys, but knew that time was short, and that he had to return to his people. Jon thought back to the letter he had written to Sansa, instructing her to send Tormund and a large host of Wildings to Eastwatch, under strict instructions that they were to look for what could have caused the damage to the wall and the destruction of East Watch, not fight the walkers on their own. Jon knew it was a risky thing to ask for; if Tormund and his men stumbled upon the Walkers in the exposed, open wastes of the True North, they were as good as dead. That being said, Jon needed to know how the Walkers possessed the capacity to tunnel through a mile of ice unnoticed, and there was no-one who knew what lay beyond the wall better than Giantsbane; if anyone could find out anything, it would be him.

When Daenerys and her party were within earshot, he waved his arm and called a greeting. Even though they were a hundred feet from each other, Daenerys's smile warmed his heart. Silently cursing himself for being so susceptible to this woman's charms, he walked towards them, the two monarchs stopping a few feet from each other. Jon met Dany's smile with his own, whilst Tyrion looking between the two with a knowing expression on his face.

"This is it then," the Hand of the Queen said, breaking the silence, "It has been ever so good to see you Jon. I'm sure it won't be another eight years before our next reunion." The small man took a step forward and offered his arm to the King in the North, who grasped it firmly in his own. "I'm hoping it won't be, my lord of Lannister," Jon said, his smile now turned towards Tyrion. Withdrawing his arm, he straightened up and looked at Daenerys. "I'm sure that we will be seeing eachother soon enough, your grace," he said, "and until then, you won't have to worry about the King in the North anymore." Dany's eyes softened as she held his gaze. "A shame," she said, "I was growing used to him."

Jon knew what she was saying. In that instant, he understood that his feelings of attraction towards her were not unrequited. Jon also knew that if he gave in to those feelings, he was lost. Maester Aemon's words echoed in his ears; Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. For what is honor compared to a woman's love? Jon knew that his duty was to his people, to the North. He had been brought back to life to lead the war against the long night, not to love a Southern Queen. His face now an emotionless mask, he nodded his head at her. "I wish you all the best in the wars to come, your grace," he said. Her smile dropped a bit, her eyes betraying her emotions. Holding her gaze for a moment longer, Jon turned and walked towards the row boat when his men awaited him. Taking up his position at the bow, he called for the others to push. Wading into the water, the king in the north knew he had done the right thing; Jon Snow knew his duty. He didn't look back.

…

Daenerys stood on the beach in silence, watching the Northerners ship disappear into the setting sun. The Dragon queen wondered if she would ever see Jon again; she wondered if she would ever get the chance to express how she felt about him. She left her heavy heart on the beach, striding back towards the walkway with purpose, determined not to be weighed down.

"Come," she called to her hand, "there is much to prepare for."

Tyrion stood for a moment longer, his eyes trained on the blood red sky. He thought it was rather appropriate, given what they were about to do.

A cold northernly wind blew along the waters edge, causing him to shiver. "Yes," he murmured, "I do believe there is."


	7. Chapter 7

Floating listlessly through the sky, high above the ground, Daenerys Targaryen watched as thousands of Unsullied and Dothraki moved closer to the rose colored walls of Kings Landing. The time for waiting was at an end; Cersei Lannister had forced her hand, and Daenerys wouldn't shy away from a fight. Olenna Tyrell's words floated through her mind. "You're a Dragon," the Queen of Thorns said, "be a Dragon."

Rhaegal and Viserion looped through the air around their brother and mother, diving in and out of the clouds with glee, eyes wide at the prospect of blood. Down below her, the Unsullied had halted their advance, their rectangular formations creating channels that the Dothraki rode through, their war cries audible from where she sat. Her army was truly a sight to behold; the Dothraki's wild and vicious nature perfectly balanced by the cold and meticulousness of her Unsullied. The tension in the air was palpable; she could see the restless Lannister soldiers pacing too and fro along the parapets, nervously glancing down at the host that waited at the city main gate.

Dany smiled to herself, hoping that her elaborate display drew every Lannister eye in the city. Her show of military force was merely a front; Daenerys had no plans to decimate the outer city and kill millions of innocent civilians. While the Lannister forces were preoccupied, Grey Worm and a group of her best fighters, Dothraki and Unsullied alike, would open the main gate from inside the wall when the signal was given. The signal itself came with brutal implications; Daenerys was going to burn the Red Keep to the ground. Varys had informed her that Cersei, along all her remaining, prominent allies, had taken to spending all their and nights locked away in the royal apartments. Varys's also knew that the number of guards defending Maegor's Holdfast had been tripled, and that a scorpion had been constructed in the Tower of the Hand, laying in wait to attempt to wound or kill one of her children.

The thought of Viserion's crippled and lifeless form in her dream fueled the cold fury that burned inside of her as she looked down at the Castle from on high: soon it would be no more than a smoking pile of rubble Varys's had assured her that his information regarding Cersei's whereabouts was accurate, but she couldn't take that chance; she had to make sure that the Mad Queen died in the fire. Now was the moment she knew, as the Unsullied began to stomp their feet in unison: an intimidating display of their coordination, the thunderous sound encasing the city. Willing Drogon to dive, The Dragon Queen and her Children tore through the clouds.

The wind ripped through her hair as Daenerys and Drogon began to level out, the Red Keep approaching fast. She could see the guards below her scrambling into cover; she could hear their yells of terror. Drogon seemed to be able to smell their fear; he let out a bone shattering roar, his brothers joining in, the sound rippling and bouncing off of every wall. At her eye level, she saw two guards pull a white linen cover of the Scorpion, tripping over their feet in terror as they tried to load it. They never got the chance. Dany and Drogon watched on as Viserion and Rhaegal unleashed a torrent of dragonfire on the two, reducing the giant crossbow to ash and incinerating them where they stood. Men screamed from below as they saw their compatriots being burned away; and their screams increased in volume when Drogon's attention was drawn by the sound. The cowards among them ran across the courtyard below her, seeking shelter indoors, while those who were either to stupid or brave to flee began firing arrows at Drogons underbelly, their projectiles bouncing harmlessly of his scales. Dany looked down at the men below her; she saw scared their faces, their drawn bows, their eyes leaking tears as they stared at their deaths. Dany saw fathers and brothers, husbands and sons; she saw good men, brave men, foolish men.

Dany saw her enemies.

"Dracarys."

…

The stench of burned hair and flesh filled her nose, her eyes watering from the smoking that drifted from the ruins of what had once been the Capital building in Westeros. All around her she could see the charred remains of fallen Lannister soldiers, their armor scorched and their skin burnt black. The whole place reeked of death; Daenerys wanted nothing more than to climb back onto Drogon and fly away. Pillars of ash rose into the blue sky above her, the clamour in the city reaching a fever pitch below her. Daenerys stood and waited, surveying the carnage that surrounded her on all sides until Grey Worm and Tyrion burst into the courtyard, an escort of Unsullied soldiers hot on their heels. Tyrion slowed to a halt as he took in his surroundings, his eyes full of regret.

"This place was my home for many years," her hand said, his voice soft, "I hated every second of living here, but it was home nonetheless." Grey Worm did not share in her hand's melancholy mood. "The city is yours, my queen," he stated, his words swallowed by his thick accent, his rigid posture that of a soldier.

Daenerys nodded and turned away from her Commander. "What of the Queen?", she questioned, her attention fixed on her children who circled overheard, their shrill cries of victory audible from throughout the city. "Nothing yet," Grey Worm replied. Daenerys turned back to him. "Find her," she said, her voice ice cold, "I must know if she is dead." Grey Worm nodded, barked a command, before he and the Unsullied left the way that they came, leaving Dany alone with her Hand. Tyrion had sat down against the base of a broken column, nervously fussing with his hands. Daenerys walked to him and sat on the tile beside him.

"I know this was the best way," Tyrion said, his eyes bleary. Daenerys looked at him, the sorrow she felt visible on her face."What we did here today was a horrible thing," Dany agreed, nodding her head sadly, "but we needed to leave the majority of the Lannister Army untouched. We're going to need them for the coming battles." Tyrion looked up at her, his face wet, his grin a hollow one. "If what Jon says is true, then the hardest part is yet to come," he said, laughing without humor, "that is the most difficult thing to accept."

"That this," he swept his arm at the destruction around them, "isn't the end makes it that much more bitter."

Dany had to agree.

…

Dressed in his warmest skins and equipped with his double edged axe, Tormund Giantsbane was walking at the head of a host of wildlings that numbered three hundred strong. Tormund knew that their mission was important and that he had to keep his wits about him; upon their arrival at what had formerly been Eastwatch, the red-headed wildling knew that the destruction and carnage on display was not the work of ordinary wights. Now, having traveled through the tunnel that the Walkers had carved out of the ice, he was trying to track their movements back to wherever it was that they were gathering. Normally, with fresh snow falling even now, it would have been impossible to find any traces of enemy movement. The Others were no ordinary enemy; their path had cut a path through the deep snowfall, wide enough for at least five hundred men to walk abreast. The size of the host they were following made Tormund very uneasy, as did the freshness of the tracks; there was barely any new snow on the uncovered ground. The Wildlings were all on edge, muttering nervously to each other and clutching their weapons tightly, prepared for a fight at any moment.

On and on they walked, down through valleys and up mountains, without any sign of their enemy. The sun had begun to set now, and Tormund knew that they had to find a place to bunker down for the night. Sleeping under the stars this far north was a death sentence; if the walkers didn't find you, the cold would freeze your body as you slept. He turned to look back at his companions.

"Right," he began, his gruff voice silencing all other discussions, "we need to look fer a place to spend the night. Ulfrick, Val: take five men and go east. Ragnar, Dradill: do the same and go west. We need to-"

"Tormund!".

Frarna, a fearsome young woman, stepped through the crowd of bodies, the fear she felt radiating off of her in waves. She pointed past him, and slowly he turned.

At first, he saw nothing, before he felt a surge of terror course through his body. On all side of the wildling part, the snowfall rose up to chest height, the thick, white frost standing ominously in the place of where the tracks should have been.

"RUN!" Tormund yelled, turning back in the direction they had come.

It was too late.

Snow began to fall around them as the Wights burst from the powder on all sides. The wildlings drew their weapons and stood their ground, the undead hurtling towards them at an unnatural pace. It was over as quickly as it had started. The wildlings, equipped with steel blades, hacked desperately at their aggressors, only to find their swords completely ineffective. Tormund saw Ulfrick's lifeless body collapse in front of him, two wights driving their swords through his chest over and over, blood spraying from the stab wounds. Frarna screamed as she went down to his right, a rusty spear embedded in her shoulder. Sobbing, she weakly slashed at the Wight that had her pinned down. Her blade caught it in the chest and stuck there; its cold, lifeless eyes full of hate as it shoved a iron dirk through her throat. Tormund turned away from Frarna, and saw a Walker staring at him from across the chaos, its blue eyes turning his insides to ice. With a roar of rage, Tormund charged at it, battle axe drawn back to deliver a vicious killing blow. His blade met the Walkers, and shattered, the shockwave knocking him to the ground. Tormund stared at the hilt of his weapon in awe, and looked up to see Other standing over him. Tormund closed his eyes, his last thoughts were of his daughters.

The Walkers sword rose and fell. The snow swirled around them, the wind singing a mournful tune.


	8. Chapter 8

Surrounded on all sides by the grey walls of Winterfell, Jon Snow stood in thought, his eyes turned south. Tormund Giantsbane had left seven days before Jon had returned to the castle, and it had been another seven since the King in the North had returned home, and he feared the worst. Tormund had left with a large host of wildlings in an attempt to ensure that some of them made it back with the information that Jon needed: now, he was worried that there were three hundred fresh corpses in the army of the Undead.

Winterfell was alive with people coming and going; more and more soldiers arrived by the day. The Karstarks, Glovers, and Umbers; the Mormonts, Forrests and Reeds. Every able bodied man, woman and child from every great Northern house had arrived or were arriving to defend the North from what was to come. Convincing the lords to let the women of their houses fight had been far easier than Jon would've ever expected: they all seemed to realize that this had to be a collective effort, or there was no hope. Down the in the forges, the finest smiths and tool makers the North had to offer were toiled night and day, warping blades of dragonglass into swords, attaching short points to spears. Jon knew that they had a fighting chance: soon the whole of the North's combined force would be equipped with obsidian weapons.

Jon allowed his mind to wander to Daenerys. He had done his best to avoid thinking about her since his return, and in truth it hadn't been as difficult as he might have first imagined. The instant he had stepped through Winterfell's gates he had been swamped with various tasks and duties, his head swimming even now as he tried to recall them. Now, alone, Jon permitted himself to think of the woman who found her way into his dreams every night. She was so beautiful. Jon knew that if he ever saw the Dragon Queen again, he would need to redouble on his efforts to rebuff her: he needed his mind to be unclouded by romantic bias so that he could make decisions based on what was good for the people of the North, not just Jon Snow.

As soft grey clouds above began to cry frozen tears, the movement in Winterfell's courtyard ceased. The crowds parted for the White Wolf as he walked past him; Jon looked regarded them as he passed, unmoved by the the respect, the fear, and the love that their eyes held for him. A boy Rickons age that looked up him, eyes wide as his mother held onto his shoulders, his eyes full of something that bordered on reverence: that terrified Jon.

"Your Grace," a voice called out to Jon, who wrenched his eyes away from the boy in front of him. Maester Wolkan was bustling towards him, his robe swishing to and fro as he stopped in front of his king, breathing heavily. "A raven for you, sire," he said, holding out a small roll of paper, the crimson seal of House Targaryen impressed into the wax. Accepting the scroll, Jon sighed deeply, looking to the grey clouds as if they held the answers that he so desperately sought. Jon lingered there for a moment: his faced upturned, his eyes closed, his lungs filling with the cold, crisp air that surrounded him. People stood and watched as the king in the north departed the courtyard, his brisk, purposeful steps leading him towards his solar.

….

The rhythmic sounds of the Unsullied filled Daenerys's ears. The loud, wild jeering of the Dothraki could barely be heard off infront of her as they scoured the road ahead of the Dragon Queen's main fighting force, the thunder of their hooves a distant rumbling in Dany's ears. The Drums of her Westerosi troops brought up the rear of their strange orchestra; Tyrell, Lannister, Martell, and Greyjoy Troops followed in various states of organization. The road they traveled on was worn down through centuries of use: shards of cobblestone peered up at her through the rough dirt below. Daenerys had been riding for weeks: the moment that Cersei Lannisters scorched body had been laid at her feet, Dany began to make arrangements for their trip north. Grey Worm and Tyrion had set about organizing and arranging the Westerosi portion of her army as troops from various cities and houses poured into the Capital. They had left three days after the sack of King's Landing: Tyrion stayed behind to begin the reconstruction of the red keep and to help smooth the transition between monarchs.

Now, they marched north. Drogon roared overhead, stirring Dany from her restless thoughts: they had been traveling for so long, riding harder and harder every day (or so it seemed to her). She had noticed the air around them getting progressively colder: this morning, they had ridden past a snow covered forest. Randyll Tarly, an experienced military commander whom she had appointed as the general of her Westerosi Troops, assured her that they were a day's ride from White Harbor. Dany felt her stomach stir with excitement: she would get to see Jon soon, and she wouldn't part ways with him again without telling him how she felt about him. She also knew that she shouldn't be allowing herself to feel anything but dread: according to letters they had received from Jon, a large hunting party that had been dispatched from Winterfell had gone missing north of the Wall.

Yet Dany's emotions persisted and intensified with the Cold: her mind filled with thoughts of the King in the North. As the sun began to set, and Daenerys climbed off of her horse, inner thighs aching from effort, a wisp of movement caught her eye. Turning to face the treeline to her east, she scanned the depths shadows cast by of the towering trees. Her heart stopped when two glowing red eyes emerged from behind a snowy trunk.

A giant wolf, as big as her horse, emerged from the darkness and stood, regarding her with the same intelligence that she saw in her dragons. As quickly as he had come, the Wolf was gone, vanishing back into the woods. Daenerys let go of a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding, her eyes scanning the trees infront of her. A howl tore through the cold evening air, setting Dany's men on edge. However, as she listened to the forlorn, sad sound that rang out around her, Dany felt her heart fill with longing as two grey eyes appeared in her mind.

Soon, she thought to herself. Soon.


	9. Chapter 9

The sky was a pale blue as Daenerys's horse crested the hill. Winterfell loomed large in the distance, it's ominous grey walls reflecting the mood of the castles occupants. Her army came to a shuddering halt behind her as Daenerys sucked in the crisp, morning air. She could see her breath in front of her face. Missandei reigned in alongside her, her fur lined cloak pulled tightly across her shoulders: clearly this cold weather disagreed with her.

Dany smiled at her closest friend.

"Not exactly welcoming, is it," Daenerys mused, a slight smile creeping across her face. Missandei let out a small moan, her eyes shut tightly. "As long as it's warmer in there," her handmaiden said, shivering, "then its the most welcome sight I've ever seen." Dany laughed, a high, tinkling note. "We best get down there, lest you freeze to death" she said, eyeing her friend with amusement and mock concern. She spurred her horse on towards the Northern stronghold, her army following suite. Her heart beat wildly as she got closer and closer to the castle walls.

 _Soon_.

She could make out the stark banners that snapped in the northerly wind: she could the faces of the arches that stood along the castle parapets. She could hear the sounds of life that flowed over the walls in front of her: the clamour of voices harmonized with hollow sound of footsteps. A voice hailed her from atop the gate, and the portcullis began to slowly lift, creaking and groaning as it did. Slowly, the main gate of Winterfell opened, and she laid eyes on the procession that awaited her. Dany was used to the attention of the masses: it was part of being queen. Today, however their unsure stares unnerved her. Her heart felt as though it was going to burst as she slowly moved into the castle, the lonely sound of her horses hooves accompanied by the dim murmur that began to rise from those who were gathered. Her eyes scanned the mass of people in front of her, and her heart twinged when she failed to spot the King in the North. At the head of the welcoming committee, where Jon should have been, stood a beautiful red headed woman.

"Welcome, your grace," the woman spoke, her soft voice given edge by her distinct northern accent. She smiled sincerely, but Dany thought that it never quite reached her eyes. "I am Sansa Stark," the red head continued, "Thank you for traveling such a long way: I hope your road here was smooth." The red head was clearly a practiced diplomat.  _Perhaps that's why she was in Jon's place: the northern lords expect a certain measure of formality._

Dany swung herself down from her horse, her hair glowing like spun silver as it caught the pale morning light. Dany began to walk towards Sansa, stopping a foot away from her Northern counterpart, smiling brightly at the red head.

"Thank you, Lady Sansa. I am very glad to know you: our travels were thankfully unperturbed. We understand the gravity of our situation: of mankind's situation, so we made no delays in coming here," said Daenerys, holding the lady of Winterfell's gaze. Sansa nodded in consent, an awkward silence falling over all who were gathered. Dany cast her eyes around the people in front of her, hoping to see those familiar grey eyes. "I do not see King Jon amongst the crowd, my lady," Dany said respectfully. Sansa's mouth turned up at the corners, a small smirk creeping onto her face as she looked at Dany knowingly.

"Come," Sansa said, extending her arm to Dany, "I will take you to him."

….

The fire in Jon's solar burned brightly, illuminating the faces of the men who huddled around the hastily put together War Table. Jon was frustrated: they had been deep in discussion for hours, yet the king in the North felt as though they were making no progress. Davos had always told Jon that he was too impulsive for his own good, and even now the wizened old smuggler called for patience as they discussed how best to proceed with the defence of the North. Jon, however, was sure that now was the time for action: Tormund had been missing for weeks, and Jon knew in his heart that he was never coming back.  _That is why I must go looking for him_ , Jon thought. Tormund had stood by Jons side through many hardships: they had climbed the wall together, they had fought for the freedom of the North against the Boltons together. Tormund had been with Jon at hardhome: he had seen what was to become of the entire population of Westeros should the Night King prevail. Tormund had stood by Jon even in death: and now Jon was worried that he had his friend to his.

 _No,_ he thought _, I'm not giving up on you just yet, Tormund. For my sake, and your daughters._

….

The passage ways of Winterfell were made of stormy grey cobblestone. The air inside the castle much much warmer than it was outside, which Dany was eternally thankful for: the weather in the north didn't really agree with her. The rising sun shone through the windows that lined the wall to her right, painting the corridor with a light yellowish hue. Danys heart pounded in her chest as she walked with Sansa Stark. The Lady of Winterfell had been talking at Dany for the past few minutes as they wound their way through the Northern Stronghold, droning on about grain supplies and other pressing matters. Dany didn't have the mindset to deal with important things at the moment: her brain was entirely occupied with thoughts of Jon Snow.

Her heart leapt into her mouth when she heard  _his_ voice coming from a room down the hall. Sansa glanced at her, a smile pulled tight across her face. The voices coming from the room were exasperated and angry: Lady Stark stopped outside of the door, motioning for Dany to do the same.

"Best not to interrupt," the redhead whispered, giving Daenerys a knowing look. Dany nodded her head and tried to swallow her nervousness. She leant against the rough hewn wall, listening to the shouting coming from within.

"You're can't go after them", A voice she recognized as Davos's exclaimed, "You're King in the North!" Dany immediately felt worried.  _What was Jon doing_.

"Im the only one here whos fought them," Jon's dour northern accent was music to her ears, yet there was a certain sense of resignation in his voice. "I know the true North better than any other man in this room. The remainder of the Free Folk will help us: I'll leave at first light. Sansa will be in charge of Winterfell in my absence, and I will no more on the matter." His tone was one of finality, and Dany heard little indication of the others in the room putting up an argument. The conversation then turned to 'the arrival of the Dragon Queen': Davos was talking, but hearing them discuss her put a smile on Daenerys's face. She turned to Sansa, who pushed herself away from the wall and walked towards the door.

"Shall we?", she said.

….

Jon was roused from his thought by the pale morning light that suddenly burst through the dark room. Sansa stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light coming through a window in the hallway.

"Someone here to see you, Jon," Sansa said, stepping out of the way as a smaller woman slowly moved into his view. The pale yellow light formed a halo around her silvery hair, her violet eyes set aflame by the hearth that burned on the opposite wall. Her lips were slightly parted as she smiled at him, her white teeth glimmering.

"Hello Jon," Daenerys said.

Jon gritted his teeth.

"Queen Daenerys."

….

The snow crunched under their boots as they walked, the canopy above their heads blocking out the cold, Northern sun. Dany and Jon walked side by side through the Godswood in a comfortable silence. They had been touring the grounds of Winterfell for quite some time. Jon had been happy to "take a break from worrying" as he put it: showing her the ins and outs of the castle that he had grown up in had put him in a much better mood than the one that she had found him in.

Dany was finding it very difficult to not stare at the King in the North: her mind ran wild with fanciful thought that's stemmed from their current state of isolation. When she bumped into Jon's back after he had stopped in front of a pond, she shook her head to clear her mind of those fantasies and apologized, blaming the hard travel for being so scatterbrained.

Jon stared deeply into the black waters below, his eyes crinkling at their edges as he smiled sadly. "My father used to come here to think," he said, his eyes still fixed on the frigid pool, "he said it was nice to get away from the responsibilities of being warden of the north." He paused, looking for the words to say.  
"I used to think he was crazy," Jon admitted, his smile wavering, "all I wanted when I was young was to have a purpose. To have a birthright: being lord of the North sounded like a dream come true back then. Turns out Lord Stark may have been right." He laughed, a hollow airy sound that carried little humor.

"Trust me," Dany said, turning to face Jon, "I know how you feel." Jon laughed again, this time much more genuinely. "You've definitely had it worse than I ever have," Jon said, his head nodding up and down. He cast a sidelong look at Dany, and made the mistake of looking into her eyes: what he saw in those violet depths scared him. Clearing his throat, Jon turned to back towards Winterfell. "We should be getting back," the King in the North grumbled, his light hearted tone vanishing like dust in the wind.

"Jon," Dany's voice resonated longing. Slowly, he turned back towards the Targaryen Queen. Dany stared at him, unconveyed passion forming on her lips. She opened and closed her mouth multiple times, her eyes conveying her emotions. Finally, she seemed to give up, her lips unwilling to comply with what her heart wanted to say.

"Don't go North tomorrow," she said instead, "don't go unless you can promise you'll come back."

Jon looked at the snow that was falling fast at his feet, the coldness beginning to seep through his clothing. "I have a duty," he said, "to my people. It isn't about what I what I want." Violet eyes met Grey. "Or who I want," his words broke Daenerys's heart as he left her standing alone in the Godswood.

 _I am yours, Jon Snow_.


	10. Chapter 10

The gathered crowds wore somber faces as Jon and his companions rode through the courtyard towards the gates of Winterfell. Jon thought that the notion of a public departure was pointless given their current predicament: there were no Lannisters to conquer, no Iron Born to beat back. Still, Sansa had insisted that it would be good for morale for the people to see their king riding out to meet the Others head on. Part of Jon knew she had the right idea, but the other part said it really didn't matter much. Time was of the essence now, and Jon knew that this was a waste of it.

People muttered their mournful farewells as he passed them, making him want to tell them that he was not dead yet, and that he would return victorious. Daenerys stared down at him from the ramparts leading up to the castle walls. Her purple eyes met his, and she gave him a beautiful, sad smile. She was dressed in a white winter coat lined with fur of the same color. Tyrion and Missandei flanked her on either side, and the leader of the unsullied who Jon had come to know as Grey Worm stood behind them. He reigned his horse up as he approached her, thinking of her visit to his chambers last night.

_Jon heard a light knock on the door to his room. He looked out his window: the moon was high in the sky. He had been restless that night, tossing and turning, haunted by dreams of Tormund's undead face, knowing he would be departing the safety of Winterfell's walls the following morning. The hour was late, and Jon couldn't think of a single person who would be waiting outside his chambers at this time of night._

_Grumbling, Jon shifted the covers off of his body, the cold seizing him almost immediately. Stumbling over to his dresser, he pulled a loose shirt over his head and slipped his legs into a comfortable pair of pants. "Coming," Jon grunted, walking over to the door. He grasped the handle and pulled it back to find Daenerys looking up at him. She wore a silver, shimmering nightgown of silk, the fine material hugging her curves and accentuating the glow of her hair. She might as well have been wearing nothing at all. "Daenerys," Jon asked, the question evident in his tone. She took as a step closer to him, placing a hand on the length of silk that kept her robe tied together. "Please Jon," she whispered, closing the door behind them, "its Dany."_

"Until your safe return, my lord," Dany called down to him, her smile causing Jon's stomach to turn. "Until my return, my lady," Jon said in reply, nodding at Tyrion as he wheeled his mount around, trotting through the gates and out into the cold. The Dragons screeched overhead, Rhaegal, Viserion and Drogon diving in and out of the grey blanket of clouds.

All around them, snow began to fall.

….

" _No," Jon said, "Daene- Dany. I can't do this." She looked up at him, confusion written all over her face. Clearly, rejection wasn't something she experienced often. He took her soft, delicate hand in his, pulling it away from the sash that kept her covered. "Jon," she said, her voice almost pleading, "I want this." Her violet eyes burned with passion, lust etched into every fiber of her being. Jon shook his head. "Dany, I can't do this. Not now. If I don't come back…" his voice trailed off, as he got lost in his own head. The beautiful woman in front of him shook her head. "Don't even say that Jon," she murmured, pressing her head into his chest, "Don't even say that." Their eyes met as she looked up at him._

" _You will come back to me," she said._

" _I will come back to you," he said._

_Dany walked towards the door, turning back to Jon. He grabbed hold of the handle and opened it for her, looking down on the Dragon Queen. She leaned up on the tips of her toes, pressing a chaste kiss on his cheek. "I will come to you again on your return," she said, the promise in her voice making Jon's self control wobble, "and I trust you will have changed your mind by then."_

_She gave him one last knowing look before the door shut quietly behind her._

Jon wondered if he was the idiot in all of the seven kingdoms. To reject Daenerys Targaryen, the mother of  _Dragons_ , and undoubtedly the most beautiful woman that Jon had ever laid eyes on was, at best, a foolhardy decision. But Jon knew that had he given in, it would have made leaving to do his duty an almost impossible task: he had been brought back to save the people of the North. Daenerys would have to wait.

Her attraction to him irked Jon: all his life, he had never thought of falling in love with someone and potentially leading a married life with them. Ygritte had been beautiful, and Jon had loved her with all of his heart, but he was sure now that had he suggested something so  _southern_  as a formal bond through marriage vows, she would have laughed in his face and told him that he knew nothing. Perhaps Dany wasn't interested in him as a person: perhaps her she was simply drawn to him in a sexual manner. The thought didn't really bother Jon, but he knew from his time with Daenerys that she was truly interested in him as a person. He sighed, wishing he was back in Winterfell instead of heading towards the bleak wastelands North of the wall.

Jon glanced around him, taking stock of his travel companions. Gendry Waters, the bastard child of Robert Baratheon and lover of his younger sister Arya, rode next to the Hound. The former kingsguard had been found heading for the wall some two weeks prior to Jon's return to the North: he, alongside the drunken priest Thoros of Myr and the Haggard old knight Ser Beric Dondarrion, claimed to be doing all in their power to stop the coming darkness. Jon knew of the Hounds prowess in battle, and felt compelled to let them come with him on this expedition, given their existing belief in the Night King. Now, they all rode towards the wall together with a host of wildlings who had been willing to accompany them.

The howling of the wind was accompanied by torrents of heavy snowfall as they made camp in the shelter of a cave. Jon knelt over a pile of kindling that Gendry had retrieved, his numb, shaking hands making hard work of starting a fire. Eventually, the sparks from his pieces of flint ignited the sticks, and they supped around the fire on dried meats and fruits.

As Jon lay down on the rough cave floor, his fur cloak wrapped tightly around his shivering body, his mind sought Dany, as it often did. The wind howled past the mouth of the cave, the moon illuminating the bleak landscape that lay between them and their goal. As his eyes closed, and the dark embrace of sleep clutched at him, he wondered if he would ever get to see her again.

….

Castle Black was never a home to a surplus of activity during Jon's tenure as Lord Commander, and impossibly less so when he served as a steward: but when the old, haggled group of buildings came into view, he knew something was amiss. There was no signs of any life at all: the walls were unmanned and the torches that were normally burning day and night were not visible in the evening light. The snow whispered quietly out of the sky, a thick, fresh coating slowly descending from the grey mass above the King in the North. Jon turned back to his companions, concern etched on all their faces as they talked in hushed voices. This was a delicate situation, Jon knew, and he needed to take the appropriate precautions for a situation of this magnitude: he might not place much value on this second life of his, but he was aware of how invaluable his experience might prove to be in the coming days.

"Gendry," Jon called out, his deep northern accent accentuating the grim nature of his tone. The blue eyed man stepped forward, shivering slightly in his fur coat. Robert Baratheon's bastard was a fearsome sight to behold, his muscular arms holding an imposing warhammer, his father's weapon of choice.

"I need you to ride back to winterfell. Take two companions and go; I need you to inform Sansa of our current situation here," Jon spoke with no shortage of authority, yet when Gendry opened his mouth to protest, his next words were reinforced with an extra inch of steel, "This is important. Should we need to flee, being supported by a host from Winterfell could mean the difference between life and death." He clasped a gloved hand on his fellow bastards shoulder, looking into the bright, blue eyes of the man who his sister loved, "We all have a roll to play." Gendry opened his mouth before closing it, his lips pulling into a determined line before nodding. With that, he turned, two of the Stark banner men walking from amongst their party to join the young man on his voyage back to the Northern capital.

"Ride with haste," Jon said, his grey eyes meeting blue ones, "it could mean the difference in our survival."

"I will, your grace," Gendry said, before wheeling his horse around and galloping off back in the direction that they had come from, the two Stark men in his wake. Jon stood, watching them disappear into the snowy horizon before turning back to the men who remained with him. Thoros of Myr was watching him through squinted eyes, his expression unreadable. The man was a drunk, Jon knew, but also a capable warrior, and someone who believed in Jon's cause.

"What do you see, Thoros," Jon said, his voice stiff and uninterested as he turned his back on the red priest.

"A scared man," came the sullen reply, and Jon wheeled around, determined not to have his authority undermined in a time like this. Thoros smiled at the King in the North, who glared back at him before speaking again.

"A capable leader," he said, still smiling, "you will lead us through the long night will, Jon Snow."

Jon was about to reply when a man shouted, the voice ringing out through the surrounding trees, the note of dread shattering the serenity of the snow covered landscape. Jon spun around and looked to where the man was pointing into the darkness of the tightly knit forest in front of him. The snow was falling faster now, the thick flakes nearly obscuring his vision as the wind screamed past his ears, carrying with it a high pitched ominous note. Two bright blue eyes stared at the King in the North as the Night King stepped into a patch of moonlight, his ghostly blue skin reflecting the pale white glow as he moved. The living stood still, petrified as the leader of the dead slowly walked towards them, the only sound he made being the soft crunch of the snow under his feet. He stopped, not two hundred feet away from them, his two glowing eyes burning holes through Jon's skull. The King in the North snapped out of his trance, right hand falling to his hip as he unsheathed Longclaw in a flurry of valyrian steel, the slithering sound of metal on leather echoed as his companions copied his motion. There they stood, fifty men whose hearts were still beating in their chest, warm and alive, looking at the creature who wanted all of mankind for his cold, undead army. A wildling who Jon recognized as Doggard, a close friend of Tormund's, screamed a blood curdling war cry and sprinted at the King of the Dead, each of his hands curled around the shaft of a war axe.

The Night Kings sword moved in a deadly arc as it appeared out of thin air, reflecting the pale moonlight as it traveled through the air. The blade caught Doggard at his wrists, its cold length shearing through skin, bone and muscle like a hot knife through butter. Doggard stumbled and collapsed on his knees, his eyes wide with an expression of pure terror as he looked down at the blackened stumps of where his hands once were: the frozen sword had frostbitten his arms moments after cutting them open. The Night King continued to advance, leaving the stricken man on his knees in the snow. Truly coming to his senses, Jon took stock of the situation as most of his men began to retreat back to where they had tethered their horses.

"RUN," the King in the North yelled, and the remaining men who were locked in a horrified trance shook their heads and took off after their compatriots, their movements bogged down by the thick snow.

Doggard stared in horror at the creature who advanced towards where Jon had gone at an almost leisurely pace, captivated by the hate that was rolling off this undead being. His attention was wrestled away from the Night King by the snapping of a twig in front of him and the crunch of boots through the powder. A distant rumbling could barely be heard over the wind, and even though the snow was coming down in torrents now, Doggard recognized the skeletal remains of Tormund Giantsbane as what was left of his friend lumbered towards him, his famous axe trailing behind him, its blade twisted and jagged. Tormunds hair had been wild in life, its robust red coloration drew the eye like a moth to a flame: now, it was stiff and greying, like the rest of his body. Doggard watched in horror as his friends unblinking, cold blue gaze fastened on him. Slowly, deliberately, Tormund drew back his axe before the dragonglass blade shore through the fur that covered Doggards otherwise unprotected neck, blood exploding as the Wildling's arteries were severed. Doggard collapsed into the snow, convulsing as he choked on the blood that was gurgling out of the wound in his throat and out onto the ground around him, the white ground quickly turning red. Tormund retched his axe free of his friends neck and continued on after the Night King.

The moon shone down as one hundred thousand undead stalked silently through the Northern trees, the crunch of their feet on the snow the only sound they made.

….

The horses were so close: Jon knew that they would be able to make it back to Winterfell if they were able to mount and flee before the horde caught them. The dead were fast to be sure: most of the wights seemed propelled to superhuman speeds, an insatiable lust to wreak death and destruction on all those who were living. He could hear the distant rumbling of what sounded like an avalanche to anyone who hadn't it before: Jon remembered Hardhome though, and he knew it was the footsteps of thousands of dead men. Suddenly, Jon was very pleased with his choice to send Gendry back to Winterfell.

He flung himself onto the back of his horse when he reached it, severing the rope that tied his mount to a tree with a single swing of Longclaw. All around him, his men began to do the same, the snow obscuring Jon's vision and limiting his sight lines so that he couldn't see fifteen feet in front of him in any direction. The continuous high pitched screeching of the wind set Jon on edge: the cry of man and horse as they were cut down caused his heart to stop. Through the white haze, Jon saw the outlines of figures as they leaped up towards his companions, dragging his men down off of their horses and slaying man and beast alike.

"GO. GO NOW, LEAVE," Jon cried, the desperation in his voice clear as day. Whilst Thoros and Beric, as well as the Hound and all of the Stark men turned to ride away, many of the wildlings lingering behind, waiting for Jon: they suffered the consequences of it. All around him, the last of the free folk were cut to pieces by shadowy figures that seemed to appear out of the veil of snow. Jon rode towards winterfell, the size of his part reduced from fifty to about ten.

He could hear the undead running after them, the sound of their trampling feet a not so distant thrum that seemed to shake the earth. The path ahead of them was uneven and treacherous, and Jon saw a winterfell guards horse get its ankle caught on a gnarled tree root and collapse, the man pinned beneath his mount. Jon wheeled his horse around and rode back to the man, Beric and Thoros calling out to him in warning. Jon dismounted quickly, kneeling next to the fallen Northman. The guards face was contorted with pain, his entire midriff trapped beneath the screaming horse.

The bearded man looked up at Jon Snow, tears welling up in his eyes. "Go," he choked out, the snow beginning to bury him slowly. Jon gripped his arm, staring into the man's eyes before standing and mounting his horse. He looked back at his trapped companion, willing him to free himself before he saw hundreds of wights suddenly appear from the dense snow, their pale blue eyes wild with bloodlust. Crouching low on his horses back, Jon set off again down the kingsroad, the dead growing ever closer.

….

Gendry Rivers had arrived at winterfell in the early hours of the morning, three days after Jon had left. The guards at the gate had raised the alarms once they had recognized him as part of the kings search party, and realized that he was returning alone. Sansa knew that Jon was in trouble: Gendry had assured her that there had been no sign of the undead when he had left, and that it was only a distinct absence of life at Castle Black that had made Jon send him back, but Sansa knew that her brother was calling for help.

Now, she stood around the war table with Ser Davos, Gendry, Tyrion Lannister and the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen. Torches burned orange on the wall, and a great fire had been lit in the hearth to stave off the cold of the early morning. The faces that surrounded the lady of Winterfell were tired and worried: expressions that she had grown all too familiar with in the past few years.

Sansa stood up, the wooden legs of her chair scraping along the stone floor. "I know it's early," she began, the exhaustion in her voice evident, "but this could not wait. Jon is in trouble and he needs our help." She cast a sidelong glance at Daenerys Targaryen, who was sitting up much straighter at the mention of the King in the North. Sansa smirked inwardly, proud of herself for confirming the Mother of Dragons attachment to her half brother. "Gendry assures me that at the time of his departure, there was no sign of the Walkers," the Lady of Winterfell continued, gesturing to the handsome blue eyed boy that sat across the table from her, "but I know my brother, and I know that he is not one to take unnecessary precautions." She glanced around the room, looking at everyone individually before her eyes rested on Robert Baratheon's bastard. "Something went wrong," Sansa said, "You being here tells me that; so now, we have to decide how to proceed." Sansa pointed down at the unfurled map of the North that was spread out on the table in front of her, her finger picking out the insignia of House Umber. "Last Hearth," she continued, "is the closest stronghold to the wall. Jon will ride there; that's where we need to send our men to reinforce him." Davos ran his fingers through his beard thoughtfully, nodding his head in agreement. Tyrion, however, seemed somewhat confused. "Why wouldn't Jon just ride back to Winterfell?", the Dwarf asked, his finger tracing the path of the kingsroad as it wound its way south, "why would he stop along the way?"

It was Davos who cut Sansa off as she opened her mouth to answer her former husband, the old smuggler's expression one of admiration for the man of whom they spoke. "Because," he said, his flea bottom accent heavy on his words, "he won't leave those who stayed there to die. Jon cares for his people more than he cares for himself: that's what he was brought back to do." The room was quiet for a moment, the sound of the crackling fire accompanying Sansa's rushed thoughts about Jon's resurrection: she wasn't sure if Daenerys and Tyrion new about Jon's death, but she guessed that they didn't by the confused glances that they were sharing. Davos seemed to realize that he had said something he wasn't supposed to, his arms crossed protectively over his chest, as he gazed down at his feet.

The Lady of Winterfell broke the silence. "Davos is right," Sansa said, trying to shift the focus of the discussion back to the pressing matter at hand, "So we need to send our men to aid the Umbers: the castle is a hard two day ride from here, and by that time we may be too late." She cast her blue eyes around the room, searching for an solution, "does anyone have any ideas?"

When Daenerys she spoke, her voice was interwoven with authority and determination, every eye in the room was instantly drawn to her as a Dragon cried outside, the fearsome roar putting Sansa on edge.

"I'll go."


	11. Chapter 11

Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 11

There were fires burning along the castle walls, men frantically shouting down towards Jon as he rode at full tilt towards the gate, every synapse in his body numb from the cold. The wind was tearing around the open field, its unpredictable gales blowing every which way, washing over the living and the dead unabated. Last Hearth was growing every closer: Jon and his companions had been riding for hours, fleeing from the wall in a desperate attempt to find sanctuary. The portcullis began to move upwards and the two doors behind it were pulled open as Jon rode through them. The Winterfell bannermen, Thoros, Beric and the Hound all rode through them.

"CLOSE THE GATE," someone yelled. The snow was a foot deep all around Jon; the two men who were tasked with closing the doors were struggling and slipping as the wind buffeted against the carved slabs of wood. Jon dismounted and rushed to them, a few men following closely behind him. He placed his hands on the door, and ground his ankles as firmly as he could into the ground, before pushing with every ounce of strength he had in his body. Slowly, the doors groaned shut and the portcullis was dropped, heavy steel clanging into the ground below. Jon wanted to collapse: every muscle in his body burned in the frost bitten air that swirled around him. The time for rest will come, he thought, and turned back to the men who were all expectantly looking at him.

"What are we to do, Sire," someone asked Jon, their voice barely distinguishable above the howl of the wind. The King in the North felt small and tired: he wanted no part in the responsibility of preparing the castles defences. Jon also knew that he had been raised to power on the shoulders of the men who were gathered around him now, and that he owed it to them to protect them to his last breath. Before he got a chance to speak however, a loud thump against the portcullis brought his heart to his mouth. A second crash followed soon after, then a third, and then a fourth. The wood of the gate began to splinter, a dent the size of a massive fist making the wood bulge towards them. The hand that was causing the damage smashed into view as the undead giant ripped one of the doors down, the heavy wood crashing into the ground, a plume of snow rising into the air. The giants dead, blue eyes fixed on them as it began to slowly lumber towards them. All around Jon, the sound of longbows strings sung, and a rain of arrows thudded into the Giants skin. The lumbering beat continued forward, unfazed, looking directly at Jon.

As more arrows rained down from the ramparts, Thoros and Beric stepped in front of the King in the North. Swords unsheathed, they both ran their hands along the length of their blades, which were suddenly enwreathed in gold and orange flames. The Giant did not hesitate, bringing a massive fist up and slamming it down towards Beric, who nimbly rolled to the side. Thoros stepped forward and slashed at the Monster, his flaming sword shearing through the dead flesh. The Giant's arm dropped to the ground, the tatters of its worn down cloth smoldering. The Giant seemed entirely unfazed, and with its remaining arm, flung Beric against the far wall of the courtyard. The knight hit the wall with a bone shattering crunch and slumped down it, unmoving.

With a cry of anger, Thoros stepped forward, thrusting his flaming sword into the giants chest. The blade caught and was torn out of the Red Priest's hands, the undead beast in front of him screaming as his frozen form was slowly engulfed in flames. Writhing and struggling, the Giant lashed out and caught Thoros in the midriff with his remaining arm, the red priest staggering backwards and dropping to his knees. Jon offered Thoros his arm, pulling the man back to his feet as he watched the giants form smolder. The red priest hobbled over to the fallen form of Ser Beric, who lay still against the cobblestone walls. The snow was falling faster now, the cry of the wind growing impossibly louder. When Jon heard the sound of distant thunder, he knew that they were lost.

The first wight appeared under the castle gate, half of its face missing, a rusting iron dirk clutched in its decomposing hands. Jon swung Longclaw, cleaving the undead man in two.

"TO ME," Jon yelled, the men of the North rushing to their King's side. The wights began to arrive in droves, their blue eyes bright with malicious intent. Each one that fell to Jon's sword was replaced by two more, and he was woefully aware of how the men of House Umber were faring. The cries of the living were muted by the howl of the wind as they fell into the snow, their bodies soon covered by frost. A woman who was missing both of her eyes and had a huge gash in her neck sprinted towards Jon, who cut through the sinew that kept her head on her shoulders, only to find three more undead soldiers charging at him. The first one was felled quickly by Longclaw, its head cleaved in two. The second was decapitated, and the third split in half at the waist. He stood there, with the snow falling around him, and suddenly it was as though he was alone.

He could dimly make out the shapes of men fighting through the haze of the snowfall, the sound of steel on steel muted by the sound of the wind. A blinding pain flashed through his torso, the edge of the dented steel blade protruding from the side of his chest. Blood began to flow down his clothes, hot and sticky. Jon cried out and spun around, the wight losing its grip on the knife that was still deep inside of Jon. Longclaw cut down the undead woman, and Jon stumbled and collapsed to his knees, propping himself up as he leaned against his sword. Jon knew that he couldn't remove the blade: nevermind the fact that the dagger was stuck through the small of his back, and it would be very difficult to remove, it was almost certainly preventing him from bleeding out. His chest felt as though it was on fire as he stood, black spots dancing in his vision.

Bright blue eyes appeared in front of him. The Other stalked towards him, making no sound as it moved, its crystal blue blade glowing with frost. It stopped in front of Jon, its eyes burning into his. Jon tried to straighten his back and shifted his feet into a fighting stance, the pain overwhelming him. Contempt shining in its ethereal eyes, the Other raised its frozen sword, prepared to deliver the killing blow.

The shriek was deafening even over the wind, the flap of the wings sending the snow into confused paths as Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal appeared from the gray tumultuous clouds that filled the sky. Daenerys Targaryen sat atop the back of Drogon, dressed in a grey and white winter coat: Jon thought he had never seen a sight so beautiful, so welcome. He saw her open her mouth, and though he could not hear what she said, her children certainly could: all three Dragon's jaw's unhinged as torrents of blinding fire spewed from their cavernous maws. All around Jon, wights that he had not even seen caught fire and burned, falling to the ground, writhing in the snow. Jon retched his attention away from the Dragon Queen and back to the White Walker that stood before him, who stood looking up at the creatures in the sky. Jon swung Longclaw with every ounce of strength he had left in his body, and the Other shattered as the Valyrian steel bit through his frozen skin. Jon staggered and collapsed, his body weakened from bloodloss. He raised his head from the snow, his vision bleary and darkening, as Daenerys and her Dragons rained hell upon the earth.

….

The snows and the wind swirled around Dany as she sat atop Drogon, frantically scanning the ground for Jon. The dead were clambering over the walls of last Hearth and pouring through the gate in never ending waves: Daenerys could see northmen being cut down and ripped apart as the wights swarmed over them, like an unstoppable wave of death. A group of seven or eight men had gathered in the courtyard, forming a ring and fighting the wights who were charging at them from every side. Dany saw two flaming swords dancing through the icy air, cutting through droves of the undead: knowing that she had to help them, she urged Drogon to land near them. She felt her heart stop as she descended through the frigid air; the ring of men were surrounding a body. Jon. She leapt from Drogons back, a small cloud of snow billowing up from the ground as she landed. Behind her, Viserion and Rhaegal had landed next to their larger sibling, and together they continued to breathe fire at the wights who relentlessly charged at them. Daenerys she found herself slipping on the frozen ground as she rushed towards the men who stood in front of her, panic filling every fiber of her body.

As she neared them, she recognized Thoros of Myr, the red priest who had accompanied Jon. He stepped forward, raising his hand in a gesture of greeting. "Is he alive," she said, the edge in her voice sharp enough to cut through the toughest armor. Thoros nodded, turning to look at Jon, "Barely," he said, "he's lost a lot of blood, but they're always harder to kill the second time around." Dany met the man's cold eyes, their edges crinkling in a small smile. "What do you mean?", she asked. Thoros's smile widened, a stiff, cold gesture. He cast his eyes to the Dragons. "We need to leave," the red priest said, "these people are lost. Winterfell is our only hope now."

Dany cast her eyes around Last Hearth. Thousands of Wights were swarming over the walls like ants; for every twenty her Dragons incinerated, forty more clambered into their place. They were the only living people left in the courtyard of the Northern Castle; Dany knew that the rest of the people residing here would be dead soon. Thoros was right: tightening her Jaw, Dany nodded to the men in front of her. "Follow me," she said, striding towards Drogon. The black Dragon seemed to sense his mother walking towards him and swung his head to face Daenerys, molten orange eyes staring deep into her violet ones as he lowered his wing so that she might climb onto his back. Once she was safely seated, she stretched out an arm to help Thoros up, the hellishly cold wind buffeting against her back, threatening to wrench her from her seat. Thoros scrambled up the side of Drogon, and with the help of Beric Dondarrion, hoisted the limp body of Jon Snow onto the back of her Dragon. Beric was next to climb onto Drogon, who in turn began to help the remaining North men climb onto her Dragons back.

The cry broke something inside of her. A single, heart piercing note; one that was all too familiar to her, rose the deafening sound of the gale. Viserion stumbled, the left side of his body visibly limp, fire spewing from the wound that had torn through his chest and back. Thick waves of hot blood steamed against the snow as her youngest, sweetest child collapsed onto the ground in front of him, crying out again. Daenerys made to leap from her seat on Drogon's back but was roughly grabbed from behind by Thoros.

"LOOK," he shouted over the wind, pointing towards the entrance of the castle. Standing under the gate, framed by the stone walls, stood a procession of being that made Dany's heart freeze and her blood run cold. A man, made entirely of ice and dressed in black and silver, stood, staring at her through frost blue eyes. Flanked on either side by more men made of ice, he was being handed a length of ice that had been brought to a wicket point at one end. "WE NEED TO GO," Thoros cried. Dany looked at the flailing form of Viserion, one of her children, the only ones she would ever have. His blood had drenched the ground around him, the snow a deep scarlet color. With a cry of despair, she wrenched her eyes away from the nightmarish scene in front of her, willing Drogon to fly. He took to the air with a shriek of despair that was echoed by Rhaegal as they left their brother on the frozen ground, dead in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay so this is the last fully finished chapter that I have to date. If you're enjoying reading, please let me know, and please keep in mind that this isn't a deep study into ASoIaF. I love GoT, and I'm in the process of reading the books, but I'm not looking to try and match George's writing style. If you have any positive feedback or thoughts, or just things you like about the story in general please let me know! Also please remember that this is my first instance EVER writing fanfiction, so keep that in mind. See you guys soon with the Finale.


	12. Chapter 12

Love is the Death of Duty

Finale

The moonlight was silver, breaking up the fog that drifted in from nowhere in particular. Jon Snow was neither hot, nor cold; there was no breeze, no grass, no water. The blackness stretched out in front of him, wreathed in silky mist. A man stood in front of Jon, his back to him. Tall and lithe, he was dressed in enamored black armor, his shoulder length hair the same brilliant silver as the moon. On his hip, a sword scabbard hung, devoid of any weaponry. Jon began to move towards the man, his limbs seemingly taken over by an invisible force. His footsteps made no sound, and he could not actually feel the ground under his feet: it was as if he was floating. When he reached the man in front of him, the silver haired man turned to face him. His features were regal, yet kind: his nose thin and long, his cheekbones high. Jon knew who he was as soon as his gaze met a pair of brilliant lilac eyes, set deep in the man's face in front of him. Rhaegar Targaryen stood tall and proud, a dragon wrought in rubies emblazoned on his black breastplate, a flowing crimson cape trailing out behind him.

The two men stood in silence, facing one another. The Targaryen Princes expression was that of barely repressed joy, his purple eyes glistening with unshed tears and Jon stared at the man in front on him. It was Jon who spoke first.

"You're dead," he said, and Rhaegar burst out laughing. It was a wonderful, bright sound: Jon felt as though he was close to this man, that he could trust and confide in him. "I am," Rhaegar said, an irrepressible grin now spread wide across his kingly features. "Am I dead too, then?", Jon asked, the beginnings of a smile creeping onto his face. The Targaryens happiness was infectious, and even thought Jon had a lot to worry about at that currently moment, he felt as joyous as he had in a long time. "No, Jon Snow," Rhaegar said, his voice deep and soothing, "you are not dead. This place," he gestured around him at the moonlit fog and the wide expanse of blackness, "It isn't death. It's something else entirely." He paused, looking appraisingly at Jon. "You've become a man," he said, looking Jon up and down, seeing the confused look on his scarred, bearded face, "and you must have so many questions. Do you know who I am?"

Jon smiled half-heartedly, "I do. Why am I talking to Rhaegar Targaryen in a room, filled with fog and no roof to block the moonlight? Where are we?", he gestured while he talked, using his arms to indicate the massive expansive of nothingness that rolled out on every side of them. Rhaegar turned his back to Jon, staring into the inky expanses that encapsulated them. "This place is born from our connection, Jon Snow," the dead prince said, his tone still lighthearted, "perhaps soon I can explain more. For now," he said, slowly shifting as he moved to face Jon, "there is only so much that I can say. There is still one more thing for you to do yet." Jon nodded; the battle for the dawn was upon them, he remembered with a start.  _Daenerys_. Images of her flooded his mind,  _he had to get back to her_.

"I need to return," Jon said, panic beginning to creep into the edges of his voice, "my people need me. How do I leave this place?" Rhaegar looked closely at the man who stood before him, the northerner exuding anxiousness and he looked around for a way out of this dream like state. "You will return soon enough, Jon," Rhaegar said, "you will be the difference in this fight. I have seen it." Rhaegar paused, his gaze catching Jons: he could see himself in the man that stood before him. The resemblance was subtle; you would have to be looking for the similarities in order to pick them out, yet they were there to be sure.  _He takes after his mother then_ , Rhaegar thought,  _Lyanna would be proud_. "My sister is enamored with you, Jon," the Targaryen continued, his tone taking on the slightest defensive edge, "You need to protect her; now, and always."

Jons heart thudded quickly in his chest. The mere mention of Daenerys set his pulse racing, but to hear her brother confirm what he himself had known for quite some time now: that was something else entirely. He stared quietly into the eyes of the man before him, his mouth settling into a determined line. "Now and always."

Rhaegar nodded, seemingly satisfied with their conversation. "We will speak again soon, Jon: I promise to be less vague."

The room flooded with light.

….

Dany looked down at Jon's sleeping form, tucked neatly into the covers by the men who had carried him up to his chambers. A thick bandage was wrapped around his waist, yet a few spots of blood had managed to permeate the linen that was wreathed around his midriff. He looked so peaceful, she thought, his curly black hair falling loose on the white pillow: he was a person who maintained a demeanor of taught control and attempted to show as little emotion as possible. His resolve was stronger than the purest of steel, yet he looked peaceful now, radiating an almost childlike sense of innocence. Her eyes wound their way down his chest, finding the scars that riddled his muscular abdomen for what must have been the fiftieth time.  _No man could have survived wounds like that_. Dany shuddered to imagine the horrors that the man in front of her must have gone through, and made a silent oath to take revenge on all those who had wronged Jon.

As these thoughts whizzed through her head at the speed of light, and her heart pounded in her chest, fanciful thoughts that she knew didn't have a place in this situation flashed infront of her eyes, making her blush and stirring something inside of her. It was a warm, soft feeling: Dany had rarely ever felt it, and she almost didn't know what it was: now, she wished that she didn't. It was a slow burn, one that had been consuming her from the minute that she had set eyes on the King in the North: she knew that she loved him. She loved his northern accent, she loved his black curly hair: she loved the fact that he stood up for what he believed in, for what he thought was right, even if it meant spiting her. She knew that she was in love with Jon Snow, yet to admit it to herself, even now, was as exhilarating as was it was terrifying. She knew that when the war was over, she had to have him for herself: no other man had ever captivated her heart like this rebellious northern man, and she knew that she would have to scour each of the seven kingdoms to find a person who she loved half as much. She also knew that by admitting her love, she was risking heartbreak: there was no guarantee that she would survive, much less Jon.

Jon's voice wrestled her from her thoughts, "Daenerys," he whispered, his voice faint and raspy. Her breath hitched as his grey eyes met her violet ones, her lips forming into words that she couldn't bring herself to say. They sat like that, bathing in each other's presence, eyes locked in an intense conversation, trying to convey to one another how much they cared. For a brief, shimmering instant, Dany thought that she could bring herself to admit to Jon how much she cared for him: she was so close to spilling out her heart, to tell him that she loved him. She opened her mouth to do so, when Davos Seaworth burst into the room, a face splitting grin plastered on his visage. Ignorant to the moment he had just interrupted, he shouted with joy and strode confidently towards his king, stopping at the foot of his bed, and suddenly seemed rather unsure what he had intended to do. Clearing his throat, he straightened up with an heir of embarrassment, his smile still broad.

"Your Grace," Davos said, "I thought we'd lost you. When they brought you back, unconscious and all bloody…I thought the worst, I'm afraid to say." Davos looked intently at Jon, his gaze flickering back to Daenerys every so often. Suddenly, the former smuggler seemed to grow aware that he had stumbled into the middle of an important conversation. "Erm…I suppose the rest of my news can wait," he said, "I will come to you again in an hours' time," Davos pulled the door closed as he left through it, the harsh sound of wood slamming into stone ringing in Jon's ears. In truth, Jon wished Davos would have stayed: the end of the War for the Long Night was nigh, and the King in the North needed to remain whole heartedly focused for the battles that were to come. Jon Snow knew that he couldn't be wholeheartedly focused around the beautiful woman who stood before him. Dany moved towards him, taking a seat at the foot of the bed, looking down towards him with a sad smile.

"Jon, I—", she began to say, before the words seemed to catch in her throat. Her eyes flickered upwards from the sheets, meeting his. Jon felt a fire roaring in his chest as he stared deeply into the violet pools that looked back at him. "Dany," he said, his voice scratchy and tired, "I know what you're going to say." The Targaryen woman's gaze was unwavering, yet Jon didn't miss the visible nervousness that she began to exude. "I feel the same way," Jon continued, not knowing how to stop: if he looked back now, he was lost, "but we can't be together now. There is too much at stake, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you." Her lips parted, her breathing heavier than it was a moment ago. Jon held her eyes with his, looked into their depths: their he found such raw emotion, such raw want that it scared him. "My duty is to my people, Daenerys. That's why I was brought back," he said, gesturing at his scar riddled chest, "this isn't about what I want: what I want is you, more than I've ever wanted any person."

She smiled now, a brilliant, sad gesture pulled at Jon's heartstrings. "You're the best man I've ever met, Jon Snow." She stood now, and took a step closer to him. "And when this is done," she continued, "when we defeat the night king, and avenge all those who he has taken from you, and from me." Another Step. "Then we will be together." Another Step. "I want you to swear to me, that should we both survive, that you will be mine," she stood over him now, staring down into his stormy, grey eyes. He looked up at her now, his heart pounding in his chest. "I promise," he whispered, as she leaned down towards him. She smelled of cinnamon, and other spices that Jon couldn't place. Her hair was as soft as spun moonlight, and no less blinding. Her tan skin was as soft as a child's: her lips, the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

….

Jon could feel it in his chest. The Cold buried into his core, the frigid wind nipping at his exposed skin. A distant rumbling brought the promise of death, and Jon could see the massive snowstorm that masked the army of the dead. Soon, he knew, this would all be over. Next to him stood Sansa, wrapped tightly in dark furs, a dragon glass dagger swaying at her hip. Beside her was Ser Davos, fingers nervously tapping at his obsidian sword. Jon continued to look down the line: so many people who he cared for. How many of them were about to die? Drogon and Rhaegal roared overhead: when Jon had learned of Viserion's untimely demise, he had been horrified. A dark thought had been permeating his mind since he had heard the news, yet he refused to acknowledge it, lest he give it wings. The hollow sound of boots hitting the cobblestone reached Jon's ears: Daenerys Targaryen took her place next to him, dressed all in white, a silver Dragon Brooch shining from her chest. He glanced at her, his expression all stony, before casting his eyes back to the horizon, and the coming of death. The sound of braziers burning all along Winterfell's walls was accompanied only by the wind. The Northmen, the unsullied, and the Dothraki watched, and waited, as their doom drew ever closer.

Jon had never seen something more horrifying, more soul chilling than the blue fire. When the torrent of blue flames pierced the cloud cover, and the undead form of Viserion latched its claws around Rhaegals neck and tore through the scales that covered it, Jon was sure that every living man, woman and child would die that day. Dany's green child fell from the sky, fire spewing from his mouth and the gaping wound in the side of his neck, desperately trying to confine Viserion to a similar fate. Drogon roared: a deep chilling note that surely would have instilled fear into the hearts of a living enemy. The men around Jon were calling out in horror, their eyes fixed on the sky above as Viserion disappeared into the clouds. Rhaegal fell from the sky, plummeting towards the frozen ground like a living comet, enwreathed in his own flame as he burned from the inside out. A cloud of snow rocketed fifty feet into the air when he slammed into the ground, his form broken, his blood coating the ice and snow that encapsulated him. Jon turned to Dany to find silent tears slipping down her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her expression one of futile resistance. Glancing at Missandei, he clenched his jaw and nodded. She looked at him, and returned his gesture: he knew Dany would be safe. There was work to be done. Climbing down from Winterfell's ramparts, Jon headed for the gate.

Jon stepped into the courtyard, the mud pulling at his boots as he strode with purpose towards the entrance to Winterfell. He walked in silence, the sounds of the wind and the crackling fire breathing life into the tension that hung in the air. Death closed in on the North, and the North rose to meet it. The North was ready.

….

Rhaegal, Viserion. Daenerys had once hoped that she would never have to see her children die. Dragons could live far longer lives than those which were sustainable by men, and Dany had always anticipated that she would pass away before any of her children did. Now, in the past day, Dany had lost two, and one at the claws of the other. Standing atop the stony walls of Winterfell, surrounded by Northern men-at-arms, she felt helpless now to stop yet another person she loved from going to their demise. Jon Snow appeared on the battlefield in front of her, men rallying behind him as he took his place next to her unsullied and Dothraki forces. The Dothraki had been forced to dismount, rendering them half as effective as they would've been on horseback: the snow drifts were far too deep for any horse to gallops through. Dany watched as Jon said something to Thoros of Myr, who nodded at began to walk towards his death.

He stopped in front of a hastily dug trench. Dany knew from Jon that it was five feet wide and four feet deep, and that it spanned the length of the Northern wall of Winterfell. The Red Priest unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the snowy ground in front of him, raising his hands and cupping them together as he bowed his head. Even from her view atop the wall, Daenerys knew he was praying. Men began to shout around her, shifting nervously as they did so. The pale grey cloud was getting closer, a furious snowstorm that promised destruction to all that it touched. Squinting her eyes, Daenerys could make out vague shapes within the gale. The cold dried her eyes out, making it almost impossible to see at any sort of great distance. When the first Wight burst from its snowy shroud, Daenerys almost screamed. It was a man, or had been, its jaw hanging onto a skeletal head by the few strands of muscle that had not been eaten away by rot. A woman followed him, her breasts exposed, though the right one was torn to shreds, a gash clearly visible in her neck. More and more poured out of the cloud that continued to roll towards them, so many that Daenerys couldn't possible hope to look at each one. They moved closer and closer to Thoros, who remained still, his head bowed. When the first Wight reached him, a hundred more on him just moments after. Thoros raised his head to the sky, unsheathing his sword in one smooth action, pulling it free of the ice. Fire sprung out of the frozen ground in the trench, incinerating the Wights as they lept unthinkingly towards the living. The fire, however, came seconds too late for Thoros himself: three Wights that had made it across closed in on him, their blades biting into his skin. The Red Priest dropped into the snow, his blood soaking into the ground. Hundreds of Wights were pouring into the trench in front of her, their rotting bodies turning to ash as the hungry flames consumed them: above her, Drogon roared as he joined the fray, spewing dragonfire upon the undead men as they tore towards the living in an endless onslaught. It wasn't enough: the bodies of the wights that didn't instantly burn away began to stack up across the trench, a morbid bridge forming across the fire. Soon, the dead would be upon them. Jon was shouting below her, the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the Northmen rallying behind him as they prepared themselves for what could be the end.

Time seemed to slow down around Daenerys. She noticed the cold blueish hue of the clouds: the wind seemed to move in slow motion, tousling her silver hair. The snow fell cold on her face, her hands, and into her eyes as she looked to the sky. Below her, the wights poured over the trench, their quick, uncoordinated movements seeming impossibly slow and smooth. The jarring sound of the two forces slamming into one another shook her from her dazed state, as fiery arrows began to rain down on the Wights who were still crossing the trench. The sounds of swords clashing and men screaming could barely be heard above the wind, the snow falling thick and fast. Suddenly, above her, Drogon cried out as a blast of blue fire caught him on the underside of his left wing. As the shadowy shape of Viserion dipped in and out of the clouds, Dany caught a glimpse of someone riding on the undead Dragons back.  _The Night King_ , Dany thought, cold fury gripping at her heart as she stared up at the sky helplessly.

Drogon had abandoned the fight down below, circling in the sky as he searched for Viserion. His presence was duly missed: the Dothraki, while still skilled warriors on foot, were a shadow of the killing force that Dany knew they could be on horseback, and they were being cut to shreds. The unsullied were definitely fairing better: they were lined up in smooth columns, the men at the front using their shields to defend themselves and those behind them. The men in the second row had long spears that they were jabbing through the holes in the shield wall, the obsidian tipped weapons shearing through the Wights. The Northmen were holding their own as well, as one could expect: She could see Jon from here, twirling his bastard sword in an arc of death as he ducked, weaved and parried, defeating each opponent that came his way.  _A king that leads from the front_. Daenerys's attention was wrested from the king in the north by another cry from Drogon: this one, however, was not of pain. As Viserion stooped down from the clouds, Drogon appeared directly behind him, and lashed out, his jaw tearing through what was left of Viserion's left wing. Viserion didn't give any indication of pain if he felt any: instead, he and his rider plummeted towards the snowy ground below them, where they landed with a plume of snow.

Dany had hoped against hope that the fall would kill them both, yet she was surprised to see Viserion come charging out of the storm, his blue eyes full of cold rage. His fury found the Unsullied first, and Daenerys could do nothing but watch as his jaw unhinged, the blue dragon fire rolling over their neat ranks. She could hear the screaming from here: men dropped their shields and their spears, throwing themselves into the snow in a desperate bid to save themselves, only to be set upon by a vicious new wave of wights. The Unsullied line broke, the undead pushing their advantage as Viserion continued to spew icy blue fire on her men. Dany knew that if Viserion wasn't killed, no man on that field would survive. Luckily, it seemed as though Jon had realized the same thing: a volley of arrows appeared in the sky, raining down on Viserion, the obsidian tips finding their mark. The undead dragon staggered, but stayed on its feet as it took an unsullied soldier in its mouth, viciously shaking its head as it tore him asunder. Another volley of arrows came down onto Viserion, with most of the arrows finding their mark again. Viserion swung his attention towards Jon, and began loping towards him, abandoning its attack of the unsullied.

As Drogon swooped down out of the sky, his fangs tearing through the scales that lined Viserions neck and into the undead flesh below, the air around Dany seemed to freeze. Her eyes scanned the Horizon, searching for the cause amongst the chaos and the bloodshed. When her gaze met  _its_ , her heart stopped. There, in the breach of the unsullied line, stood the Night King, flanked on both sides by at least a dozen white walkers. It stood there, It's icy blue orbs staring deep into Dany, freezing her mind and body with the purest sensation of terror that she had ever felt. Then, without warning, the eight Walkers split away from the group, going to join the fray. Panic gripped her heart, as heat returned to her body, her eyes seeking out the man she loved.

_Jon._

….

Death surrounded Jon. The wind pushed against him, the snow falling so fast that it stung his exposed skin, and still he fought, his blade weaving in and out the bodies of the Wights that challenged him. His mind was numb, the action far too fast to comprehend: he was being kept alive off of instincts alone. When Viserion had opened a gap in the line of Unsullied, Jon had realized that that was where he was needed most: he had tried to muster a group of northerners to go and reinforce the right flank, but the wights seemed to be attempting to stop their progress as much as they could, overloading the left side as they began to push numbers through the middle.  _The Night King_. Jon knew that he had to cover the breach in their lines, or they would be reared by the undead who made it through the middle. Sloshing through the powder, Longclaw cut down two wights, splitting them in two at the waist as they charged aimlessly towards him. Flanking him on the right was Beric Dondarrion, his brilliant flaming sword dispatching foe after foe, and Gendry on his left, whose warhammer's iron spike had been replaced with one made of Dragonglass. The three of them fought on, backed by two hundred Northerners who Jon had ordered to fill the breach in the unsullied line, though Jon knew that number had dwindled as their progress had been halted.

"KEEP PUSHING," Jon yelled at the top of his lungs, attempting to be heard over the snow storm. A redheaded woman with a gash in her neck ran at Jon, a rusting hatched clutched in her cold hand. Longclaw flashed through the air, and the woman fell. The air seemed to blur in front of Jon, and he barely had time to raise his bastard blade again to block the Others sword. The Walker had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, his frosty spear grating against Jon's Valyrian blade as two more Others materialized out of the snow, engaging Gendry and Beric. Jon stared into blue eyes, and saw naught but cold hatred. The Other swung at him again, a furious blow that was almost too fast to react to, but Jon sidestepped and thrust Longclaw through its icy form. As the Walker dissolved, blown away in the Northern wind, Jon turned to see Beric Dondarrion fall, a long gash opening his body from neck to waist. The Walker he had been fighting turned to Jon, who let out a cry of rage and swung his sword in a deadly arc. The walker met his blow, and responded with one of his own, jabbing his spear towards Jon's midriff. Jon twisted his body, trying to dodge the strike, but the blade caught him and sheared through his leather armor, opening his skin underneath. Crying out in pain, Jon swung longclaw with all his strength at the Walkers neck, the valyrian steel biting through its icy skin. As it dissolved into the Northern Wind, Jon doubled over, clutching the wound in his side. Weakly, Jon turned to see Gendry strike down the Other he was fighting, delivering a devastating overhand blow, driving the Dragonglass point through the Walker's head. Gendry looked exhausted, but sprinted over to Jon when he met his eyes. "Don't die yet," Gendry smiled grimly, hauling Jon too his feet, "this isn't over." Gendry pointed with his hammer to the gap in the unsullied line. "There," he said.

Jon followed his gaze, his eyes settling on the vague form of the Night King, flanked on both sides by two walkers. To their left, Drogon was breathing an undulating stream of fire onto Viserion's undead form, which lay still, smoldering in the snow. Daenerys's black dragon let out a bone rattling roar, and swung its head towards the Night King. Jon's attention was wrestled back to the battle in front of him, as a wight charge him, scampering across the frozen ground on all fours. Longclaw ended its second life, and Jon watched in awe as Drogon's dragonfire melted three Others where they stood. Jon searched for the Night King, who had moved so fast that it had been almost imperceptible. Drogon turned, searching for the Walkers, and found two more of them, shattering them into the wind with a sweep of his talons. Jon's heart beat with renewed hope, and despite the pain in his chest and the exhaustion in his limbs, he fought towards Dany's Dragon with renewed vigor.

Drogon's cry of pain seemed to freeze all of the living men left on the battlefield. As two more wights fell at Jon's feet, he looked up to see the Night King, standing on Drogon's back, a spear of ice clutched in his hands, the point buried in the Dragon's spine. Drogon thrashed, but the Night King hung on with inhuman strength, driving the spear deeper and deeper. Drogon let out another cry, fire spewing from his mouth, setting both the living and the dead alight as death rows racked his body before his gave one last roar, and collapsed into the snow. Jon stared in horror as the Night King wrenched his weapon out of the Dragons body, and turned to stare straight at him, his blue eyes full of mocking.  _Nothing can stop us_ , it seemed to say, its gaze unflinching,  _Your death is merely an inevitability._ Letting out a yell of rage, Jon cut his way through the Wights in front of him. Slash, parry, duck, slash, thrust. Longclaw was a blur of destruction, dozens of bodies hitting the ground behind him as he hacked his way through the crowd of wights until, at last, he stood not but ten feet from the Night King. Jon clutched the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, breathing heavily. The wound in his side burned, and Jon thought that he had never been so tired in either of his lives. The Night King didn't wait for Jon to catch his breath. It launched itself at him, spear still wet with Drogon's blood. The blows rained down so quickly that Jon feared that should he blink, it would mean the end for him. Overhead cuts, side swipes and jabs: Jon couldn't gain a foothold in the fight. The Night King pressed its advantage, keeping Jon on the defensive with an undulating torrent of powerful attacks. All around them, the dead began to overwhelm the living, pushing through the cracks in the lines, the bodies piling up into mounds. The Night King swung its spear at Jon's head, who ducked and jabbed, Longclaw catching the undead king in its side, shearing through its armor. Jon tried to press his advantage, but his hit barely seemed to faze his opponent, who struck now with twice the strength, at twice the speed.

The frozen spear shot out towards Jons chest, and he desperately tried to turn his body to get out of the way: he was a fraction too slow. The Spear tore through his leather armor, splintering the steel plate below, and buried itself in his lung. Jon gasped for breath, his body shuddering in pain as the cold swept through every fiber of his being. The Night King pulled the spear out and ran it through him again, this time finding his gut as the Other twisted the blade, rupturing Jon's internal organs. Blood began to leak out of the corner of his mouth, dribbling down into his black beard. He could feel the life leaving his body as he collapsed onto his knees, looking down numbly at the icy blade that pierced him. He raised his head to meet the Night Kings gaze: The Other stared down at him, a look of satisfaction filling its cold blue eyes. In that moment, Jon could see the future in its eyes: a future of a snow covered world. He saw Winterfell buried under mountains of powder, the bodies of his sister and friends lying amongst the ruin. He saw Drogon and Rhaegal's undead forms flying above Kings Landing as Wights poured over the walls and the gates, slaughtering thousands of innocents. He saw Daenerys, lying broken and cold on the frozen ground, blood pooling around her as her violet eyes stared blankly at the cloudy sky above her. The Night Kings eyes were full of mockery and laughter: it knew it had won, it knew that there was nothing that could stop it now, it knew-

Longclaw cut through the Other's neck, and suddenly, the Night King knew very little at all. Slowly, its eyes still locked on Jon's, the Walkers head dropped off of its shoulders, and down onto the snow next to him. Slowly, oh so slowly, it began to dissolve, chunks of ice blowing away on the wind, its body falling to the ground. Longclaw fell from Jon's hands as he sank into the snow, his eyes heavy as his life left his body.  _Daenerys_ , he thought weakly,  _I never told her how I_ -.

The World went black.

Jon Snow was dead.

….

The Sun had begun to break through the grey blanket of clouds, the orange light refracting off of the bloodsoaked snow. The wind had calmed down, and the snow had stopped falling: Dany wondered how many days it had been since she had last seen a sunrise. She walked along the walls outside winterfell, staring out at the hundreds of thousands of bodies that were piled up as far as the eyes could see. When Jon had struck down the Night King, the rest of the Wights had died as well: it seemed that they were entirely controlled by who had raised them, and once their leader was defeated, they all sank to the ground, the life abandoning their bodies. When they brought him to her, she didn't cry. He looked small, and fragile: his face paler than it had been, the blood from his wounds frozen across his tunic.  _Drogon, Jon, Rhaegal, and Viserion_. All which she cared for had been taken from her: it was all that she could do to not give in there and then.

Dany stared at the horizon, her eyes finding the pale oranges, yellows and blues. She would rule in their name: she would make sure that the world never forgot her children, nor the one man she had truly ever loved. She lingered there for a moment, staring out over the battlefield. The wind caressed her face, as her eyes stung with unshed tears.  _The Sun rises on a new day_.

She turned away.

Epilogue

The smoke wound its way towards the pale blue sky, sifting through the leaves of the Weirwood. Sansa had been insistent that they burn Jon under the branches of the weirwood where he had taken his Nights Watch vows. The wind blew softly, dulling the sound of the cracking fire. Dany had remained, long after the others had left, looking down at what remained of the man she loved: even in death, Jon Snow looked regal. The pale morning snow around his pier glistened, crying as the heat from the fire threatened to melt it away. Dany stood there, looking down at Jon, remembering. The first time she had seen Jon on Dragonstone, the one time when they had kissed, a moment that had lasted only for an instant, but held a promise that there would be a million more like it: a promise that was now broken. Jon might be dead, but Dany's memories would live on, and through them, Jon would too. As the tongues of orange flame began to lick and Jon's hands and feet, she turned away. Soon, there was no one left as the fire began to consume the body of the once King in the North. Fire danced across flesh, a distinct rose color beginning to seep through the dead man's body.

….

The moonlight was silver, breaking up the fog that drifted in from nowhere in particular. Jon Snow was neither hot, nor cold; there was no breeze, no grass, no water. The blackness stretched out in front of him, wreathed in silky mist. Rhaegar stood in front of Jon, a sad smile etched into his features.

"Jon," he began.

….

The sky was streaked with orange. Puffy, grey clouds blew in from beyond the wall, holding the promise of snow. The last tongues of smoke dissipated into the evening air, and the birds chirped longingly in the trees. Lying on a pile of ash, Jon Snow's heat began to beat: blood coursed through his body. He could feel his strength returning with his consciousness; he could feel his fingers now as he curled them into a fist. A cool winter wind felt like a splash of cold water: gasping Jon sat up, looking around. He felt his chest: his hands slipped under his Jerkin, finding the puckered, scarred flesh from where the Night Kings spear had torn through him. Stumbling to his feet, Jon raised his eyes to look at his surroundings; night was coming fast, and he needed a place to shelter. Retrieving a robe that had been auspiciously left behind by whomever had placed him on his funeral pier, he pulled the hood over his head. Setting his eyes South, Jon Snow's journey began anew.

The vast northern countryside sprawled out before him, the light cold sunlight reflecting in his violet eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6,081 words. Three times longer than my longest ever chapter. This has been a long time coming, and I sincerely hope its worth the wait for y'all. I tried my best to take my time with this chapter, and I hope everyone of you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it. I have plans to write a sequel, so I hope that excites you guys, and I hope I wrote a good ending that every one of you is satisfied with. Let me know how I did please!

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note
> 
> Hello Everyone. I hope y'all enjoyed this first chapter. This is not only my first fanfiction that I've ever written, it is the first bit of creative writing that I have done in quite some time. Please excuse any grammatical mistakes that I may have made; I'm a bit rusty, and I'm sure the mistakes will be ironed out over time. Feedback is greatly appreciated! Please let me know what you guys think, and how I'm doing on my first ever fic.
> 
> Some things to know going forward in this story; I am making it up as I go. Like I said previously, this is my first time ever writing a fanfiction, and my first time writing a fictional story since High School. Please keep that in mind if I'm doing anything glaringly wrong, and let me know!


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